


Martin Greeneyes

by Adrastos



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Class Issues, Coming of Age, Gen, Introspection, Politics, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 91,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrastos/pseuds/Adrastos
Summary: Verdauga Greeneyes made a pledge to his Master-At-Arms, Luke, that he would look after his young son Martin. And look after him he does-by taking the young mouse in as his son and raising him alongside his own children. Now, as Martin grows up in a Mossflower ruled by wildcats, he must carve out a place for himself as both the son of Lord Verdauga and Luke the Warrior.





	1. The Ambush

Mossflower was completely still beneath a blanket of snow, yet Verdauga Greeneyes and his army were on the move. For the past two weeks rumors about a band of raiders led by a fearsome stoat named Greypaw the Bloody had come flying into Kotir day after day, bringing with them tales of farms plundered, goodbeasts murdered and riches seized. Verdauga had originally paid them little mind…until the raiders had happened across a diplomatic party set out from Salamandastron and massacred fifteen hares from the Long Patrol before very nearly killing the fabled Boar the Fighter, Badger Lord of Salamandastron. This act needed to be addressed at once; Verdauga had only ruled Mossflower for three years, after all, and as such he needed to avoid anything that would make him seem weak. In addition, as Board the Fighter had once ruled Mossflower himself, Verdauga needed to show that he was a worthy successor to the old badger.

Not to mention a third reason, one that the wildcat admitted to none save himself: every day he wanted nothing more than to pack up and flee Kotir, with or without his children, fleeing the grief and the memories of the past summer. Even if temporarily, the advance of Greypaw the Bloody gave Verdauga the chance to escape the ghosts at home.

Whatever the reasons, Verdauga had set out with a hundred picked soldiers from his Thousand-Eye Army, a mixed group of stoats, weasels, and rats taken from the army he had used to conquer the land he now ruled. Verdauga had entrusted command of the army to an up-and-coming captain by the name of Cludd, a weasel, while the old wildcat himself traveled at the front with his Master-at-Arms.

Ah, yes. Kotir’s Master-at-Arms. Even as Verdauga reached the top of a hill overlooking the great River Moss, he could see the Master-At-Arms had beaten him there and was gazing down at the river, lost in thought. Verdauga suspected that he knew the reason why: the same ghosts that had led the wildcat to take the field himself.

Even after years of service, the Master-at-Arms didn’t really fit in with the rest of Kotir’s military. Not because he was less skilled – he was absolutely the finest swordsman Verdauga had ever seen and was nearly as skilled with a bow – or because he was undisciplined, but because amidst an army of rats and mustelids a mouse had a way of sticking out. Still, the mouse by the name of Luke had been all Verdauga could have hoped for in a Master-at-Arms, and Verdauga hoped that his skills would serve them well in the coming fight.

As Verdauga made his way the top of the hill, Luke turned and saw him approach.

“There looks to be a fire about two or three miles ahead on the other side of the river, up against the cliff.”

“Think it’s Greypaw?”

Luke nodded. “Who else could it be?” He looked back across the river, then down the hill towards the Thousand-Eyes, and sighed. “Of course, I haven’t the faintest idea who we’ll get that lot across without being seen and ambushed.”

Verdauga, who had been studying the terrain between them and the fire, thought he saw an answer. “Easy: just to the north of here the forest grows thick on the opposite bank. We can slip through there and send the bastard to the Dark Forest before he even knows what hit him.”

“Yes. To the Dark Forest. At the mention of the Dark Forest, a queer look passed over Luke’s face. The mouse turned to face the river again, and Verdauga noticed that he was shaking.

“I’m sorry,” Verdauga said, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s alright. What’s done is done. And besides, you suffered just as much as I did.”

It was certainly true, and that was another reason why Verdauga had wanted Luke to come along: to have someone there who he knew, really _knew_ , could understand why a Wildcat would drop everything to chase after a villainous stoat in the dead of winter.

Someone else whose world had collapsed around him.

The past Summer had dawned beautifully over Mossflower, and for about a month it seemed as though the season was going to be one of unending peace and quiet.

Then the plague struck.

Not even the healer foxes were sure of where the plague had come from, save that it likely had come from the north and was working its’ way south when it hit Mossflower. The Woodlanders’ settlement Moss Town had been devastated, and of the five healer foxes employed in Kotir the only one to make it back to the castle alive was a young apprentice named Fortunata. During the height of the summer, it seemed that not a day went by without some beast collapsing in the road and dying.

It was during this time that the plague finally managed to work its way into the castle, claiming a fifth of the army before it passed. Verdauga still thanked the heavens that both his Tsarmina and his Gingivere survived, as had Luke’s infant son Martin.

The same could not be said for either of their wives. Verdauga was sure he would never forget when his wife Mina collapsed in the hallway, nor would he forget the frantic rush back to their bedchamber as she burned in his arms. Nor would he forget her last words, whispered as he held her for the last time: “ _Take care of them, my love. Take care of them._ ” He swore that he would, that Tsarmina and Gingivere would grow up healthy and happy, and she had smiled, whispered “ _I know_ ”, and died.

Luke’s wife Sayna caught the plague the next day (maybe even _from_ Mina), leaving cat and mouse widowers alike.

Back in the winter, Verdauga shook his head. As Luke had said, what was done was done. It was time to keep moving.

Once the rest of the army had caught up to the two, Verdauga addressed them. “Greypaw has set up camp about three miles ahead of us on the opposite side of the River Moss. To make sure that we have the advantage and to avoid the sort of ambush that nearly brought low the Badger Lord of Salamandastron, Luke and I have decided that the best course would be to head a half-mile north and ford there. From there we can slip through the woods undetected and catch the stoat and his raiders against the cliffside. By the time this day is done Mossflower will be safe, our dead allies in the Long Patrol will be avenged, and we will be on our way home. Is this clear?”

“ _Yes, Lord Verdauga,_ ” A hundred voices answered.

Before the army began marching again, Verdauga pulled Cludd aside.

“Make sure to keep the soldiers in line. We can’t afford anyone straying off and costing us the element of surprise.”

“Aye, my lord.” Cludd saluted.

“Also,” Verdauga took a deep breath, “Make sure to keep an eye out for trouble. Luke and I are…distracted today, and I fear one of us might miss something crucial.”

“Distracted, sire?”

Verdauga waved a paw. “Last summer. Our loved ones seem to weigh heavily on both our minds today.” And with that Verdauga turned and began to head north.

As he did so, he missed Cludd rolling his eyes. “Hell’s teeth.” The weasel muttered under his breath. “She’s been gone five months. Move on.” Then, turning his attention back to the hundred-odd soldiers behind him, Cludd raised his voice and barked out “Time to move out lads! Step lively!”

***

The crossing went without issue, which Verdauga took as a good omen. As the army marched Verdauga took the chance to talk more with Luke, hopefully to clear both their heads for the ensuing battle.

“I gave Cludd orders to be on extra guard as we march, just in case either of us miss something.”

“Smart. Especially today.”

Verdauga looked down at the mouse, whose face still bore heavy grief lines. “Remembering Sayna?”

Luke nodded. “Yes. Two springs ago, when she first told me she was pregnant. I was so stunned that the only thing I could say was ‘shut up’. She pushed me into a puddle and began pelting me with mud, do you remember?”

Verdauga chuckled. “That was hard to forget. I don’t think she forgave you telling her to shut up for weeks. And Mina, she just found the whole affair hysterical. I remember her telling me that if your child was half as fierce as their mother that everyone within a thousand miles of Kotir would be too terrified of the two of them to attack.”

Luke laughed at that; Verdauga thought it was good to hear. “Well, after a year I can certainly say that Martin is living up to that promise. That babe already has a will stronger than half of Mossflower Woods.” He stopped. “We’re getting hear the camp, I think. We’d best be quiet.”

Verdauga nodded and turned to signal Cludd that they were getting close, and as he did Luke spoke again.

“Lord Verdauga?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. It felt good to laugh again.”

Verdauga merely smiled.

The army marched on another half-mile in silence, before Verdauga bade them to stop. Once they had all come to a stop, he began to divide the forces up for battle: Cludd would take fifty soldiers and come at the camp from the west, while captain Blacktail would take forty and do the same from the east. Once they engaged, Verdauga, Luke, and the remaining ten soldiers would drive in from the middle and hopefully back Greypaw into a corner. Then, it would be a simple matter of cutting the raiders down.

 

The air whistled with the sound of arrows.

Verdauga barely had time to register that Cludd was shouting “shields up!” Before Greypaw’s raiders erupted out of the woods. The wildcat drew his sword, noticing that Luke was doing the same with his own. Verdauga raised it, shouted “MOSSFLOWER!” and plunged into the advancing wave.

His ultimate target was Greypaw himself. Verdauga saw the stoat hanging back behind his forces and began to cut his way towards him. The first beast to get in his way happened a rat with a nasty scar on his face, but it made no matter; within a few seconds his head was cleaved off and rolling in the dirt. The next target was a weasel, larger, and with his own sword. He noticed Verdauga and shouted “Die, cat!”

The air around wildcat and weasel rang with the sound of steel on steel. Verdauga had to admit: the weasel was good. Well aware of his lesser size the weasel did his best to keep on the offensive, preventing the wildcat from using his superior bulk to overpower his opponent. Verdauga was forced to change tactics: slamming his tail against the ground for balance, he lunged forwards and swiped the weasel with his paws. The sudden warmth he felt told Verdauga that his claws had found their mark, and sure enough the weasel crumpled to the ground.

Verdauga took advantage of the temporary lull in action to take stock of his surroundings: what he saw wasn’t appealing: although Cludd had managed to form up some semblance of order in the ranks, the relentless barrage of arrows and the press of the raiders was steadily driving the Thousand-Eyes backwards. _Where’s Luke_? He thought wildly. _He can’t be dead!_  

A wild yell snapped Verdauga’s attention back to his own situation. He turned and saw a foolhardy rat charging at him. Verdauga raised his sword, and, when the rat failed to stop in time, thrust it forwards. The rat groaned, fell to the ground, and suddenly the way to Greypaw was clear.

 _Time to end this_.

The wildcat growled, ears slicked back against his head. “GREEEEEYPAW!”  

The stoat didn’t even deign to react to the immense wildcat now bearing down on him, and simply gestured up at a tree to his left.

Verdauga’s shoulder felt like it had exploded. He’d forgotten to check for any archers! Damn it! Another arrow took him in the foot, and the Wildcat went down on one knee.

 _Meia…I’m sorry._ He looked up, and saw a vole aiming right at his head. Verdauga, lord of Mossflower Woods and of the Thousand Eyes, glared back. If he was going to die, he would to it with as much dignity as he could muster.

Verdauga heard a grunt of pain Suddenly, Luke stood in front of him, an arrow sprouting from his chest. His sword lay at his feet, and in his hands was a bow. The mouse raised it, hands trembling, and fired.

Bam. The vole was down.

Bam. Greypaw’s first shot had been re-payed in kind, and the stoat grunted in pain. Verdauga finally managed to lurch to his feet, dimly aware that Greypaw was calling a general withdrawal for his forces. Verdauga supposed that he should give some sort of order, telling Cludd to pursue or regroup or _something_ , but he didn’t care. _Luke. I must get to Luke_. He owed him his life.

The mouse was not even ten steps away, but he could have been back in Kotir for all the effort it took to reach him. Verdauga found him on his knees, panting, looking but not seeing. Finally, when his lord made it to his side he turned.

“I’m…sorry…” He chocked out. “I…wasn’t…paying attention.”

Verdauga cradled the mouse’s paw in his, suddenly aware just how small it was. “The fault was…both of ours, my friend. I am the one who owes an apology.”

Luke shook his head. “You’re…my…lord. You…could…have…killed…me, but…you…you…didn’t. I…was…proud…to…serve…”

Verdauga was suddenly aware he was crying. “You deserve better. You’ve served me well, but it cost you your wife, your son…”

Luke tensed. “Martin…my son…” He looked Verdauga directly in the eye, pleading.

“Keep…him…safe. Please…find… _someone…please…_ ”

 _“Take care of them, my love. Take care of them._ ”

“I will. Martin will grow up loved. I swear it.”

“I’m…glad…” Luke smiled, closed his eyes, and left for the Dark Forest.

“Lord Verdauga?” There was a weasel standing behind him. His name escaped the wildcat. “My lord, you’re…injured. Are you able to walk?”

With a great deal of effort, Verdauga rose.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” He looked down at Luke’s body. It was so tiny, really. He’d never realized just how small the mouse really was. “Go back to the supply wagons and see if you can get together an impromptu shroud.” He realized that his voice was hoarse. “While we go back I’ll-I’ll need to make arrangements for a funeral.”

As the survivors of the disastrous range struggled back to their barracks and Luke’s body was conveyed to the basement for funeral preparations, Verdauga ignored his body’s screams for rest. Martin. He had to see Martin. He found the babe asleep in the arms of Bella, Boar’s daughter and impromptu nursemaid/nanny to Tsarmina, Gingivere, and Martin.

She looked up as he entered. “I heard rumors, my lord. Is it true? Is Martin an orphan now?”

Verdauga could only nod.

Bella gave a soft cry. “And so soon after his mother passed. What will happen to him now?”

“Luke begged me to make sure he grew up safe and loved. I intend to carry out that pledge.”

Bella thought. “Well, the effects of the plague are still being felt down in Moss Town. I’m sure we can find someone who will welcome a young mousebabe. Maybe the Stickle family? Hedgehogs? They already adopted one young orphan.”

It was the logical thing to do, but it seemed _wrong_. Martin would have a good life in Moss Town, to be sure, but still – Verdauga’s gut told him that this wasn’t the right path. _But then what is?_

Then, he knew.

“No. Martin will not go to Moss Town.”

“Then where?”

“He stays right here. Bella, please get Tsarmina and Gingivere. I have to speak with them.”

Her eyes widened, but she did as she was told. When she returned with Verdauga’s two children, remnants from a time before plague and raiders, he knelt in front of them with Martin bundled up in his hands.

“What’s this, father?” Tsarmina gazed at the babe with as much of an air of contempt as a five-year-old could muster. “That’s the mouse’s whelp, right?”

“Tsarmina, hush. Do not speak of him like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because this mouse’s father saved my life, and to honor his sacrifice I have decided to raise Martin as my own son. Tsarmina, Gingivere, as of now this mouse is hereby named Martin Greeneyes.”

 

 

 

 


	2. Sword Lessons

“Left! High! Low! Thrust!”

Panting, Martin grit his teeth and tried to ignore the heaviness in his arms. He wasn’t about to give up learning swordplay two weeks in, after all. Ever since his seventh birthday he’d begged on an almost daily basis, and finally, _finally_ , now that spring was here father had relented and instructed Bane to teach the young mouse the basics. Martin had been surprised to see that he was going to have to start with a wooden sword and told Bane that it was stupid and that he wanted to start with something better. Like a steel sword or one of those fancy curved blades travelers used.

The fox had simply laughed at that. “Maybe when you’re older and have more muscle. Of course, maybe we should wait until then to start practicing at all, since maybe even a wooden sword is too heavy for you.”

“It is not!” Martin had protested, and to prove Bane wrong the mouse had grabbed the wooden sword and promptly started swatting. Bane had parried with ease and smirked, while Martin realized a simple truth: even a wooden sword meant only for training was a lot heavier than he would have thought. He’d then realized that that was the point, and that Bane had been trying to show his new student just how long a road he had in front of him.

Martin then decided that he’d do it. He’d _show_ the stupid fox. Even if meant starting with just a wooden stick, one day Martin vowed that he’d wipe that smirk right off Bane’s face.

Still, after two weeks Martin still found it hard to keep up. But he was doing the best he could.

“Down! Up! Across! Down-Left!”

_Thwack!_

Martin cried out as Bane’s sword slapped his arm.

“And that’s your arm.” Bane pointed the edge of his sword at Martin’s neck as if to chop it off. “Yield.”

Martin groaned and flopped back onto the cool grass. “I yield.”

Bane sat next to him. “You’re improving, Martin. You’re getting quicker and more in control every blow, it feels like.”

Messaging his arm, Martin sat up. “Why do you have to go so _fast?_ When I watch you train Gingivere you move slower. I know you do.”

“Because I have to be faster with you.”

“Why? My brother’s been doing this for over a year, so should you be taking it easier on me instead of him?”

Bane sighed. “Because you live a world where one day you’ll have to fight badgers, foxes, weasels, and maybe even other cats. And all of them will be larger than you, and stronger.”

“So?”

“So, if you want to defeat them, you’ll need to be quick. Use your smaller size to your advantage to dodge their attacks while you wait for your opportunity to strike.”

Martin frowned. Just dance around his opponents? That didn’t seem right. Warriors were supposed to fight head-on, bravely meeting their foes in battle and striking them down with ease.

Up on the balcony, Verdauga watched his adopted son practice. “Martin’s been at this two weeks and he’s already got a better grasp of swordplay than Gingivere did after twenty.”

His companion, a squirrel known as Lady Amber, nodded. “He certainly takes after his father, there’s no mistake on that.” She gave a quick look at the wildcat. “Meaning no offense, my lord.”

“None taken. I had the same thought. How do you think he would fare with a bow?” Following the devastation wrought by Greypaw’s archers Verdauga had set upon creating a corps of archers for the Thousand-Eye-Army, and as Amber was probably the finest archer in Mossflower Country Verdauga had personally asked her to lead it. She’d accepted, and even agreed to personally train Verdauga’s children.

“Martin? I don’t know.” She shrugged. “A bow is a completely different beast from a sword, and from what I can tell he’s not yet strong enough to string one.”

“He’s only seven. There’s still time for that. And how fare Tsarmina and Gingivere?”

“Tsarmina will make a fine archer one day, at least in terms of skills. She has a fine aim and adapts well to any bow I place in her paws, but her temper…”

Verdauga raised his eyebrow. “Is she giving you trouble?”

“Well, to keep it short, if I had an arrow for every time she called archery stupid after missing a shot or threw her bow at someone else for being better than she is, I’d have enough to block out the sun.”

Verdauga snorted. “You should see her when she gets mad at something she actually hates. Or better yet, ask Bella about what happened when the cook spilled her favorite porridge.” He chuckled at the memory. “And Gingivere? How is he?”

“He…tries, my lord, but I fear the lad will never be an archer of any skill.”

“I see.” Verdauga was a little disappointed, but not surprised. Gingivere was a bright young lad, to be sure, but he was terrible with any sort of weapon, be it a spear, sword, bow, or even a dagger. _How do you mess up  a dagger?_ Verdauga found himself thinking again. _All you have to do is just hold it and jab forwards._

His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the courtyard. Somehow Martin had managed to get under Bane’s guard and give the fox a good _thwack on the_ ankle, his first ever hit on the fox. He noticed his father up on the balcony and grinned.

“Did you see that father? I got him! _I got him!_ ”

Verdauga had to smile. “A good hit, to be sure. You take to this like a fish to water, Martin.” The mouse beamed, unaware that Bane was back on his feet. “Of course, you still have a lot to learn. Case in point – never, ever turn your back on the enemy.”

Bane then promptly delivered Martin a good crack on the head. The mouse spun around, snarled, and the fighting began again.

 

Tsarmina watched the idiot everyone insisted on calling her brother go at it from the doorway. As she watched him bash around with his little wooden stick, she had to fight to keep from laughing. It was the most pathetic thing she’d seen in some time. Finally, mercifully, Bane called an end to sparring for the day and went inside, leaving Martin standing in the yard with a ridiculous grin on his face.

Tsarmina grinned. _Time to put him in his place._ She strode across the yard towards the mouse and spoke in the most syrupy-sweet voice she could. “So, training went well, I take it?”

Martin didn’t even have the sense to stop grinning, the idiot. “I hit him today, right in the ankle! And Bane says that I’m getting better every time we spar.”

“Don’t get to full of yourself. You hit him once. I’ve hit him _dozens_ of times. And with real steel, not some stupid stick.”

Martin’s grin finally fell, and Tsarmina suddenly noticed that he was still holding his little stick. _Excellent_.

“Of course, I doubt that you’ll ever get to swing around one of those. I don’t think they let little mouse peasants like you play with real swords.”

To her delight, Tsarmina saw that Martin was getting angry. “That’s not true! Father says-”

“Father?” She put her paw on her chin, pretending to think. “But isn’t your father dead? Last I checked he was still rotting in the ground, wasn’t he?”

As intended that struck a nerve. Martin looked as though she’d kicked him, and then the little fool charged at her. Without missing a beat Tsarmina snatched up Bane’s discarded weapon and casually disarmed him as if the swords were weightless. Then, before Martin could react, she struck him in the stomach hard enough to send the idiot mouse toppling to the ground.

“See? Like I said. You’re nowhere near worthy of a _real_ weapon.” Then, laughing, she pranced off. As she did she knew that she was going to get a rather stern lecture from her father, but it was worth it to make the little hairball cry. _Who does he think he is, waltzing around the yard like he’s one of us?_

She’d never understood why her father insisted on treating Martin like a proper Greeneyes. For heavens’ sake, he wasn’t even a cat! She’d talked to him about it that first winter day when he’d dragged her and Gingivere out of their beds to present the little bundle they were supposed to call their brother.

“ _But father, he can’t be a Greeneyes! He’s not your son, he’s the son of that mouse!”_

“ _Tsarmina, ‘that mouse’ gave his life for me. Martin has no family left.”_

_“But can’t he live in Moss Town? With the other mice?”_

“ _No. I made a vow to Luke, one that I_ will _keep._ ”

His tone had said clearly that there would be no argument, and that was that: Martin was a Greeneyes (even though his eyes were actually grey, Tsarmina had pointed out), and the matter was officially put to rest.

 Oh, Gingivere had gone along with it like the sap he was, although in hindsight Tsarmina supposed it was foolish of her to expect a two-year-old to be capable of any real thought. As such, he and Martin grew up together, played together, even took lessons together. It sickened her every time. Martin had no place in Kotir. Before she entered the castle she took one more look at the little idiot, who was still sitting in the courtyard and doing his level best not to cry. _Pathetic. Father should have sent him down to live with the other peasants._

She opened the door and bumped into Gingivere, who by the look of it had watched the whole mess.

“What was that for?”

Tsarmina shrugged. “The little twerp hit Bane with a little stick and somehow got it into his little head that it meant he could be a warrior. I was being nice and showing him why he needn’t waste his time on _that_ idea.”

“It looked more like bullying to me. Why are you always so mean to him? He’s our brother!”

“Don’t _ever_ call him that in my presence!” Tsarmina hissed out the words, and like the pliable eight-year-old he was Gingivere promptly shrunk back. “Martin is _not_ our brother. Gingivere, we’re cats. We rule mice like him. We don’t let them run around our home and call them family.”

“But father says…”

“And _I’m_ saying that you have no need to concern yourself with him.” She placed a paw on his shoulder. “Gingivere, I’m your sister. I care about you, and want what’s best for us both.” And the strange thing was, it wasn’t a lie. She gave her brother a reassuring smile, and then left him in the hallway. It was time to return to her room to await her father’s displeasure.

 

 


	3. Family Talks

Martin could feel the tears in his eyes as he limped back through Kotir, but he refused to let them fall. _Warriors don’t cry_. Still, it was hard to keep them in when every breath sent waves of pain up his chest from where Tsarmina’s blow landed, and the walk back to his room was a long one. Every so often he passed some beast or another, but Martin paid them no heed. He needed to be strong, and to be strong he needed to keep his eyes forwards and his body in control. No matter what.

Martin finally made it back to his room, crawled into bed, and curled up beneath his sheets, shaking. _Warriors don’t cry_ , he admonished himself again, _they don’t. They don’t cry, so I can’t cry. Father wouldn’t cry if HE got hit with a stick, so I shouldn’t either._

Father…

“ _Father? But isn’t your father dead?_ ” Tsarmina’s words came back to him, stinging even worse than his chest, stinging that tiny part of him that whispered _you don’t belong here_. That tiny part that was always afraid that Tsarmina was right, that mice like him had no place in Kotir, no place pretending to be a Greeneyes. No matter how much he tried to tell himself that it _wasn’t_ true, that father _did_ love him, there was still always a tiny voice in his head preaching doubt and voicing his fears. 

Finally, Martin couldn’t hold it back any more and let the tears flow. As he did so he heard a light rap on the door.

“Martin?” It was father. “May I come in?”

Martin sat up and tried to rub the tears away. _Warriors don’t cry_. He told himself again. “Y-yes.” He couldn’t believe how small his voice sounded. He needed to be braver. “Yes,” he said again, trying to be more firm.

Verdauga entered and sat down at the edge of his son’s bed. “Your brother told me that your sister attacked you in the yard and struck you across the chest. Is this true?”

Wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak without breaking down, Martin nodded and lifted his shirt.

Verdauga’s expression somehow grew even softer and somewhat harder when he saw the bruises forming on his son’s chest.

“Martin, this is… I can’t believe your sister did this to you. I’m so sorry, son. I’ll be having a talk with Tsarmina later, I promise you that.”

_Son. He called me son._ Martin started shaking again at that, at the emotions it brought up. Verdauga looked at him with an expression of concern. “Are you alright? Did your sister hurt you somewhere else?”

Martin shook his head. “She – she – she said – that you weren’t my father and that I don’t belong here.”

“She _what?_ Martin, has she said this before?”

Before Martin could stop himself, he started confessing that yes, she had, and before he knew it he was telling his father about the little voice in his head that whispered he didn’t belong. Then he was crying in earnest now, like some stupid little babe who hadn’t been fed or changed or something. _See_? the little voice whispered, _HE wouldn’t cry like you are. You’re not a warrior._

Without a word Verdauga picked Martin up and hugged him. Not for the first time Martin was surprised at how tender his father was, even though the wildcat was at least four times his size.

“Shhhh.” He whispered. “It’s alright, Martin. You’re alright. I love you.” The words should’ve made Martin feel better, but they _didn’t_ , and he kept sobbing into Verdauga’s chest.

“I’m sorry”, Martin said after he finally managed to regain control of himself, “I shouldn’t have cried like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need to be brave and strong like a warrior. And warriors don’t cry.”

“Who told you that?”

“I read it in a book.”

Verdauga chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Martin, do you consider me a warrior?”

What kind of question was that? “Of _course_ you’re a warrior! You’re the bravest and strongest creature in Mossflower, everyone knows that!”

“But I’ve cried plenty in my own life, over family, over friends, that time when a certain young mouse thought it would be fun to jump out his bedroom window…” Martin blushed at the memory, embarrassed. Verdauga continued speaking. “It’s ok to cry, son. It doesn’t mean that you’re weak, but that you have a caring heart.”

Martin thought about it. It made sense, but even then, he still couldn’t stop thinking about what Tsarmina had said.

“Father?” He asked.

“Yes, Martin?”

“Am I _really_ your son?”

Verdauga sighed as he looked down at him. “You shouldn’t listen to your sister. You _are_ my son, no matter what she or anyone says, and no matter what always remember this: the day I took you in I swore to treat you as though you were my own blood.”

“Then why does she keep treating me like this?”

It was a hard question, one that Verdauga would spend many a night agonizing over. “Your sister is…very proud of the fact that she’s a cat. And sometimes it seems that she thinks that gives her the right to rule and that it makes her better than everyone else. I’ve done my best to teach her otherwise, but…” He shook his head. “Well, it’s nothing that you should worry over. The fault lies with her, not with you.”

Verdauga got up and opened the door to leave, but before he could step outside the room Martin spoke again. The wildcat turned back around and saw his son fidgeting, eyes downcast.

“What was he like? My, uh, other father?”

Hidden by his cloak, Verdauga clenched the doorknob. “Soon, Martin. I’ll tell you soon. I promise.”

Martin looked up. “Why not now?”

“Because the tale is long, and I want to give it justice. And at the moment, I need to speak with your sister.”

***

Tsarmina hated her father’s little talks with a passion. They were always filled with ‘family this’ and ‘family that’ and entreaties to consider the value of the lesser creatures her father ruled over. It was ridiculous. Him and Gingivere were all the family she needed, and what value could possibly be gained from the sniveling idiots that worked the fields or ran around flailing sticks with pointy metal bits?

At least today’s lecture was well-earned, in her opinion. Every time she thought about the musical _thwack_ of wood-on-mouse or the beautiful sight of her “brother” doing his level best not to start crying she couldn’t help but grin.

She heard a knock on the door. “Tsarmina?” It was her father. _Judgement has arrived._ “I want to have words with you, young lady.”

She crossed over and opened the door for him. She was going to need any sympathy she could scrape up, and it seemed the courteous thing to do.

“I just finished speaking with your brother.” Tsarmina held back a snort. _Brother? Come on, father._ “He showed me where you struck him across the chest. Why would you do that to him?”

She shrugged. “He attacked me first, father. I was defending myself.”

Verdauga grew stern. “A seven-year-old mouse attacking a wildcat four years his elder? Not exactly a threatening foe. And besides, Martin said that you provoked him and said he wasn’t family.”

By now Tsarmina knew better than to say her thoughts on the subject in her father’s presence, so she kept quiet.

Not that it deterred her noble father, of course. “Tsarmina, we’ve discussed this half a hundred times. Martin has been your brother for six years. Why won’t you accept it?”

Tsarmina knew that she needed to answer. But what was the best response here? _Aha. I’ve got it._ “Because…I feel like you’re just using him to replace mother.”

To Tsarmina’s delight, her father’s face immediately softened. “I’m sorry, Tsarmina. I had no idea.”

Tsarmina averted her eyes for a couple seconds, and when she spoke again she took the care to provide _juuuust_ the right amount of waver to her voice. “Yes, father. I just miss her so much, and when you just woke us up that night and said ‘here, this mousebabe is your brother’ it felt like you were really telling us to forget about her.”

Her father leaned in for a hug, which Tsarmina permitted for appearances sake. “I miss her too,” he said. “I miss her every day. Don’t think I don’t.” He broke off. “Still, that doesn’t excuse hurting Martin the way you did. I’m sorry Tsarmina, but you still need to face your punishment.” He was silent for a moment, something Tsarmina was pretty sure he was doing just for drama. “I’ve decided that tomorrow evening you are to report to the kitchens. After all, we will be hosting the Long Patrol hares, and there are like to be quite a few plates in need of scrubbing.”

Her jaw dropped. A washerwomen? _Her?_ The firstborn daughter of Lord Verdauga Greeneyes?

“Yes. A washerwomen. I feel that it should serve as an optimal lesson in humility.”

Then, before Tsarmina could respond, he got up and left. As he did she slammed the door behind him.

 

Verdauga took a deep breath. She hadn’t taken it well at all, just as he feared. And he suspected that she wasn’t being completely honest about her ‘I miss mother’ tale, as well. The thought of the latter greatly disturbed him, he had to admit. Could she really sink that low?

“ _Take care of them, my love, take care of them._ ”

He shook his head. _I’m trying, Mina. I really am. But what am I to do when our daughter grows crueler and more prideful with each passing day?_


	4. Feasting the hares

Gingivere loved feasts. He loved the smells, the music, the chances to meet travelers from far away, all of it. And tonight was no exception. Father often spoke of the need to keep the respect of the Badger Lords of Salamandastron, and as such the visit of Captain Lawrence Derfield Swishtail (Normally just called ‘Rence’ for short) heralded a feast the likes of which Kotir had not seen since the one marking Gingivere’s birth some eight years prior. In homage to the visitors the cooks had prepared a scrumptious plate of greens including the creamiest risotto the young wildcat had ever seen and a mushroom stew that looked disgusting but both tasted delicious and felt incredibly warm washing down the front. Those who preferred to dine on meats were similarly treated: Kotir had been fortunate enough to have been visited recently by a caravan bearing exotic spices and fruits from faraway lands that none of the Greeneyes children had ever heard of, and when combined with fish taken from the River Moss or brought from the seas around Salamandastron the result was a hall full of creatures happy after feasting on oil-drizzled steamed trevally and stewed tripe.

_It’s sad that Tsarmina’s missing this_ , he thought. She would have loved the seafood especially, Gingivere was certain. Gingivere himself had eaten at least four plates of the trevally and as such felt completely bloated, while for his part Martin had merrily indulged himself on the risotto. The two were quite sure that they would be full for the next week, at least, and as such had moved on to the drinks. Unfortunately, father hadn’t let them taste some of the wine he and the Long Patrol were currently indulging in, but Lady Amber had been kind enough to serve them an incredibly sweet juice from a fruit she said was called a lemon. “If I ever rule Mossflower”, he told Martin, “you watch-I’m going to serve trevally and this lemon water every chance I get!”

Martin, too full to respond, just smiled. Gingivere was happy to see that his brother was in better spirits than he’d been the day before. What Tsarmina had done was needlessly cruel, and although Gingivere was sad that she’d had to miss the feast because of it he was happier to see his little brother returned to high spirits.

 

Up on the high table the mood was much grimmer despite the freely-flowing wine and cider, for the Long Patrol had come to Mossflower with grave news: after years of quietly remaining in his lands in the north, old Greypaw the Bloody had suddenly allied with a brutal corsair by the name of Vilu Daskar and begun to march south once again.

“And you are certain that he intends to attack Salamandastron?” Verdauga asked.

Rence was grim. “No doubt about that, old boy. Between his strength and that of the corsair Daskar the blighter has enough strength to conquer us at last. Old Boar’s doing his best to think of a way out, but no matter how you slice it the facts are clear: we’ve no hope of defeating the fiends on our own.”

“And you want my help?”

“Who else is there to turn to, goodfellow? Sometimes it seems as though the entire blooming countryside’s nothing but bandits and raiders, these days. If we’re to survive this, we need your forces.”

Verdauga shook his head. “Need I remind you of what happened the last time I took the field against that damnable stoat? I lost thirty-seven soldiers, including my Master-At-Arms.” Indeed, the loss to the Thousand-Eyes had been so grievous that Verdauga had been forced to hire mercenaries in order to keep his position stable. This was how he had taken Bane into his service, and although the fox commanded quite the yearly price Verdauga had to admit that his forces were worth it. “I fear that to take the field against both him and this Vilu Daskar might ruin us.”

“And to _not_ take the field would certainly ruin _us_.” Suddenly, the hare got a wry smile on his face. “And wouldn’t that be a right poor way to repay old Boar for letting you set up in his old country, eh wot?” Rence leaned back in his chair. “I can just see the old badger now, pierced with enemy spears, drawing his last breath and saying ‘curse that blighted wildcat! I gave him Mossflower and what does he do? Sit on his pretty behind and let _me_ get slaughtered!’” Rence gave a theatrical sigh. “But you must do what is best for you, I imagine. And not a word from these lips’ll change that.”

Overdramatic as the hare was Verdauga had to admit that Rence had boxed him into a corner: it was true that Verdauga’s rule had depended to a decent extent on Boar’s continuing goodwill and lack of inclination to bestir himself from his mountain seat, and as such he felt that he did owe the badger. Not to mention that if he just hid in Kotir and let Salamandastron stand alone Bella and Barkstripe would probably kill him.

Still, the prospect of marching out in force with the Thousand-Eyes and doing battle against Greypaw wasn’t one that Verdauga had much enthusiasm for, particularly considering the nascent drama among his children. “I need time to think,” he told Rence to stall for time.

Unfortunately, the time to think proved very short, as the Thousand-Eye Army’s general, a pine marten by the name of Ashleg, had overheard the conversation and had decided to make his voice heard.

“Oh, come now, lord Verdauga. What sorts would want to count us friends if they know that we’ll leave them out to dry like this? And besides, many of my soldiers still remember the winter ambush. I guarantee you, tell them about this and you’ll have torches and pitchforks tonight demanding we march and pay the bastard back. And not to mention –” Ahsleg glanced over at Verdauga’s sons – “if you don’t march you’ll some day have to tell Martin that you were too afraid to face the man who killed his real father.”

“Ashleg,” Verdauga glared at the general, “when I want your opinion I will ask for it.” He sighed. “Still, you are right. On all accounts.” He glanced down the hall, weighing the lives of the creatures sitting there against the words of Rence and Ashleg. Then, having made his decision, he turned back to the hare. “When you get back to the mountain, tell Boar that Mossflower is with him.”

Rence gave a deep bow. “Most wise, m’lord. Now, if you excuse me, I think I’ll go and help myself to another plate of that risotto!”

Verdauga stared down at his own plate. Suddenly the trevally no longer seemed quite as appetizing as it had been. He shook his head. _No sense ruining this feast_ , he thought. _A song. That’s what we need. A song to lift my spirits_. When the server next came by, Verdauga pulled the rat aside and told him to ask the bard for an uplifting song. The rat nodded, deposited a helping of risotto larger than Verdauga’s head on Rence’s plate, and then wound his way over to an otter standing in the corner of the room.

Within minutes the otter’s booming voice filled the rafters and mixed with the sound of his lute.

_I was walking by the River Moss, I was I was I was,_

_And as I look’d across the bank my gaze a flower draws._

_The flower was as soft as silk with eyes of piercing green,_

_And seem’d to me the flower had a brilliant glowing sheen!_

It was an odd song, honestly. _What sort of flowers have eyes?_ Verdauga thought.

_So I crossed o’er to the flower and I grabbed her by the stem._

( _Wait a minute,_ Verdauga realized)

_I plucked her up and started fing’ring the –_

* AHEM! * Verdauga let out a very loud cough. The otter glared up at him, annoyed, while as subtly as he could the wildcat gestured for him to sing something else. The otter sighed and struck up a different tune.

_Ev’ry winter season,_

_Except for the reason –_

As the otter sung Verdauga stole a glance down at his sons. Mercifully neither of them seemed to have understood the actual meaning of the song, but one of Bane’s foxes had started making his way over to them with a mischievous look in his eyes.

Verdauga stood up to intercept, felt the wine go right to his feet, and then lurched down the hall. As he did so most of the feasters stopped and stared at him, forcing him to smile a reassuring smile and tell them to get back to their eating. Verdauga reached Gingivere and Martin as the singer reached the second verse.

_And there could be no indecision,_

_As the rev’lers took position_.

Heading Bane’s fox off, Verdauga tapped his sons on their shoulders.

“Gingivere, Martin. A word, please.”

The two looked at each other. “But father,” Gingivere protested, “I love this song!”

“The song will still exist this evening. What I want to say needs to be said _now._ ”

Gingivere groaned, but he got up and followed his father out of the hall. Martin followed suit after a last, longing look at the stewed tripe.

“Soon I will be going away,” Verdauga began once the three were in private, “to Salamandastron.”

Martin’s face lit up. “Salamandastron! Can we come, father? Please? I’ve always wanted to see it?”

Verdauga shook his head. “ _No._ This is no casual visit. I wouldn’t be leaving unless it wasn’t of the utmost importance. I will be taking your sister, but only because she is older than you both and because I feel that a few weeks’ hard travel could knock some sense into her.”

Gingivere was indignant. “Why does she get to go and we don’t? We’re not cruel like her, so if anyone should have to stay behind she should! Father, I want to go to!”

“Do _not_ speak of your sister that way!” Verdauga thumped his tail against the floor. “I will not have you three squabbling amongst yourselves day after day. And my word is final. Neither of you are going.”

“Why not?” Both asked the question at the same time.

“Because the road is going to be very dangerous, and I don’t know what awaits me in Boar’s country, save that we will be met with bandits and corsairs the likes of which Mossflower Country has not seen in years. I don’t want either of you in their path – if something happened to either of you I don’t – I don’t have any idea what I would do with myself.”

“Then why does Tsarmina get to go?” Martin asked.

“Because she is older than the both of you, and she is getting to the age where I ought to include her more in the business of ruling.” _And because I don’t trust her alone in Kotir with the two of you_ , he thought, but he kept it private. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, but it does. Both of you will get your chance when you get older, but for now you must stay here, where it’s safe. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, father” was the reluctant response from both wildcat and mouse.

Verdauga smiled. “Good. Now get back to the feast; the canapés ought to be out soon.”

Gingivere frowned as he inspected his dessert. It wasn’t fair that Tsarmina got to go to Salamandastron, it really wasn’t. She was the one in trouble, not him and Martin, so why did they have to stay here. He looked around the hall. _And the otter’s not even singing the song anymore_ , he realized. All the enjoyment he’d gotten from the feast earlier was gone, replaced with rotten disappointment.

Martin, for his part, was completely quiet, yet every so often Gingivere thought he saw the tiniest grin on his brother’s face.


	5. Sneaking Along

True to Verdauga’s pledge to defend Salamandastron the Thousand-Eye Army was ready to march only a fortnight after Rence departed, and the wildcat’s regular troops were augmented by an assortment of woodland archers under the command of Lady Amber and a force of woodland skirmishers commanded by an otter titled the “Skipper”. The wildcat had also recruited a couple of the mice from Moss Town, because under their young leader Timballisto was widely agreed in Mossflower to have a natural gift at siege craft. It had been strange to approach them, considering that many had been personal friends of Luke back when he was alive, but Verdauga felt that he and Boar would likely have need of Timballisto’s expertise in the coming fight. On the home front Verdauga left Kotir under the watchful eye of Bane and his foxes, as well as a few green Thousand-Eyes. In short, save for a tiny force back home to keep the place at least partially defended, Mossflower was marching with as much force as Lord Verdauga could muster.

Also in tow, oddly enough, was a cart of letters from Bella and Barsktripe, the erstwhile carer for Verdauga’s children and her husband. This cart was there was because Verdauga knew that bringing it to Boar and letting the badgers get in contact would do them all a world of good, particularly Bella.

After all, she and Barkstripe still were only a few years removed from the loss of their own son.

Born about a year before Verdauga conquered Mossflower country, little Sunflash had been growing up as a strong-willed and intelligent young Badger at the same time that Bella had taken on the additional responsibilities related to Tsarmina, Gingivere and Martin. Indeed the young Badger had actually become a bit smitten with Tsarmina, who was about the same age, and one day had resolved to bring her a bouquet of vibrant bluebells from deep inside Mossflower woods.

He never returned. Barkstripe, Bella, and even Verdauga had spent weeks searching for the badger, even traipsing outside of Mossflower Country, but no matter where they looked there was no sign of Sunflash. The most that they’d been able to find was a bit of cloth that may have been from his shirt. Bella had been inconsolable, just as Verdauga had when Mina died, and whereas Verdauga had soon found some semblance of wholeness raising his children, Bella and Barkstripe had no-one. It was for this reason that Verdauga had decided to bring them along, in the hopes that they could find solace with Bella’s father.

Also along was Tsarmina herself, who was currently loading her trunk into the back of one of the luggage carts. She had spent the last fortnight changing her mood every hour or so about the prospect of leaving Kotir, ranging from happiness at getting her father all to herself to horror at having to sleep in a tent like the ‘common rabble’. At the moment she had a rather smug look on her face, and Verdauga suspected that she had probably been lording the fact that she got to go over her brothers. He shook his head. _I do hope that she’ll find some humility while we’re away._

Finally everything was loaded up, and after one last goodbye to the boys Verdauga joined Tsrarmina at the front of the caravan.

“What exactly did you bring in that trunk?” Verdauga was curious: that thing had to have weighed at least a hundred bounds. “I hope you didn’t forget that a long journey like this is no place for fancy clothing and the usual comforts.”

Tsarmina only smiled. “Of course not, father. I thought it wise to bring my practice bow and sword. After all, who knows what may happen. Perhaps I’ll have the chance to try it out on some filthy raider.”

“I prey that won’t be necessary. With any luck we’ll get to the mountain without any problems.”

“I hope so as well. I have to admit that it would be fun to get to spend a pleasant few days in peace and quiet while Gingivere is bored out of his tree back at home. And Martin, of course.” She added hastily, and in Verdauga’s opinion as an afterthought.

He decided not to press her on it. “I’m sure they’d be _thrilled_ to hear about your adventures.”

 

Halfway down the line, some of the soldiers were getting a bit hungry after spending all morning getting ready to march. One, a weasel named Blacktooth, prodded his friend. “Oi! Splitnoise!”

“What is it? Can’t you see I’m enjoying the weather? It’s beautiful out today, it is!”

Blacktooth rolled his eyes. “It’s sunny out. So what? It’s been like that every day this past week!”

“Well, yes, but we didn’t get to march out through the countryside in it, now did we matey?”

“Oh, shut it will you? I’m going to grab some vittles from the food cart. Want anything?”

Splitnose thought about it. “Some apples would be grand.”

Blacktooth snickered. “Apples? What are you, _ten_? Fine, I’ll get you your apples, and you can munch on ‘em while I have myself some _real_ food and take a couple fish.”

Still chuckling over the apples, Blacktooth made his way over to the food cart. _Now, which ones were the apples again_? He rapped one of the barrels and frowned; it sounded oddly light, as though someone else had been there first. “Hope they didn’t steal all the good meat.” He grumbled. Blacktooth rapped on another barrel, which sounded fuller, and opened it. He grabbed a couple apples and slung them into his sack before moving on to the fish. Excited at his belated breakfast the weasel payed no further heed to the first barrel.

_Is he gone yet?_ Martin thought as he struggled not to breathe too loudly. When whoever was coming through the food cart had rapped on the side of the barrel the mouse had nearly jumped out of his skin, but he managed to keep himself from making any noises and had managed to remain undiscovered. In the darkness of the barrel, Martin smiled. _So far, so good_.

The plan to sneak him and Gingivere along for the travels had been hatched almost as soon as the pair had left the feast. As Gingivere reached his door he had turned to his brother and groaned about how unfair it was that they had to stay while their bully of a sister got to see the great mountain of fire and its Badger Lord.

“That’s right, it is.” Martin had replied with a straight face, fighting to keep from grinning.

“Why does she get to go and we don’t? And when she gets back you _know_ that she’ll strut around all smug about it for weeks.”

Finally, Martin couldn’t hold his grin back any longer. “Unless she’s not the only one who goes.”

Gingivere had just looked at him. “But father said that we weren’t going, and that his word was final, didn’t he?”

“That’s why we don’t tell him until it’s too late to turn back. If we sneak along, no one will be the wiser!”

“But father said –”

“If father said that you were to clean Tsarmina’s room every day and give her your favorite books would you listen to him then?”

“But –”

“Come on, Gingivere! We’ll get to see Salamandastron! The great fire mountain! And Boar! You’ve heard Bella’s stories about him! Just imagine it striding up to the great front gate of Salamandastron and being greeted by Boar the Fighter!”

And that was the end of that. Gingivere had (somewhat reluctantly) agreed to sneak along, and thus the two set about finding their hiding places. For Martin it was easy – all the mouse had to do was find a barrel and quietly empty it out before snugly fitting in, as he was still quite small.

By contrast, his very status as a wildcat made it so that Gingivere had a lot more difficulty finding somewhere to squeeze into. The two had circled around the carts for a good hour before finally Gingivere had noticed that Tsarmina intended to bring her velvet trunk along for the ride. Then they had opened it up, removed as much as they dared, and Gingivere had slunk inside. Judging by the lack of commotion Martin assumed that he had similarly gone unnoticed, and it wasn’t hard to imagine why – he doubted that Father would let her access it earlier than absolutely necessary in order to keep her experience as spartan and casual as he could in order to advance his ‘lesson in humility.’ Not that she’d listen, but regardless it meant that her trunk would serve as a good hiding place for a while.

After a few hours sitting as still as possible, Martin noticed that the cart had come to a stop. It was time for him to get out. _Finally!_ He thought. As much as he needed to stay hidden, he was getting seriously bored. Martin reached up and ever-so-slightly lifted the top of the barrel before peeping out. The coast was clear. He climbed out and replaced the lid before hopping down from the cart. _Where to begin?_ Should he go get Gingivere? _Nah, he can wait._ There was so much to see! Martin turned and began walking down the line. He saw some faces he knew and some he didn’t, weasels from the barracks and squirrels from the woodlands alongside mice and hedgehogs he had to assume came from Moss Town.

It was then that Martin realized how sheltered he’d been in his life at Kotir. Looking at a mouse holding a biscuit and talking about how he could really go for some milk, Martin realized that he’d almost never seen another member of his own species. Nor had he even set foot in Moss Town, save the few times father wanted him alongside to demonstrate how to rule or deal justice or some other reason. _Did any of them know my father?_ He found himself asking. _My other one?_ Suddenly, faced with the prospect of meeting someone who had met him, _known_ him, Martin wanted nothing more than to run. To leave these mice who may have known his blood, and the confusion they brought up. Martin turned around and started jogging away, reasoning that Gingivere probably wanted to be freed of his hiding place.

He got about ten steps before he crashed into a mouse carrying an armload of papers. “Oi!” The other mouse yelled. “Watch where you’re going, mate!”

Embarrassed, Martin bent down to try and sweep up the mess. “I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to. I hope I didn’t ruin anything.” Was ‘my lord’ the right thing to say? It was what everyone called father, but he supposed that maybe this mouse wasn’t quite high enough in status for that.

Sure enough, the mumbled courtesy only amused him. “Can’t say I’ve ever been called ‘my lord’ before. I like it, I must say.” He bent down as well, scooping up papers. “Well, these don’t look do be in any worse condition, so I guess I can be thankful for that. Especially since the ol’ wildcat himself wants them.”

Martin gave a start. Why did this mouse want to meet with father? Before he could ask, the other mouse grabbed the little stack out of Martin’s hand and added them to his own pile.

“You’d best run along now, before you get into any more trouble. Although,” he gave Martin a funny look, “what’s a young mouse like you doing in with us anyways? You’re awful small for a fighter.”

_Oh, blast._ Martin needed to think of something to say, and quick. “I, uh, uh, I,” he stammered, completely at a loss for words. As he did the other mouse kept staring at him and began to squint.

“It’s funny though. You actually look like a lot like an old friend of mine who died about six years ago. And he had a son, now that I think about it, who'd be about your age.” He looked even harder at the stammering young mouse. “It’s uncanny, really. How old are you, son?”

“S-s-seven.”

His eyes grew wide. “You don’t live in Moss Town, do you? You have a highborn look about you, now that I think about it. Are you from Kotir?”

Martin nodded. If possible, the other mouse’s eyes grew even wider. “Hell’s teeth. I can’t believe it. You look just like Luke the Warrior. I was his friend, you know. Young mouse, if you are who I think you are, _I knew your father._ ”


	6. History of a Mouse

Oblivious to the nascent drama taking place on the other side of the camp, Tsarmina took advantage of the stop to retrieve some of her luggage. They were in the middle of a clearing in Mossflower Woods surrounded by flowering trees, and she wanted to see how many flowers she could shoot off. _It should make nice practice,_ she thought. So, she wanted to retrieve her practice bow, but when she got to her trunk she noticed that it had somehow come unlocked. _Has someone been pawing through my belongings?_ It couldn’t have been father, could it? Worried she was going to pull some cruel trick? _That must be it. Father’s being poisoned against me, I know it!_

She ripped open the trunk, prepared to see what had been taken or if there was any evidence of her father spying on her, and instead found Gingivere curled up with a look of abject panic on his face.

For over a minute, the two siblings merely stared at each other. Then, as if popping out of his sister’s trunk was no stranger an act than bumping into her in the hallway, Gingivere gave his sister a little wave, his biggest grin, and said, “uhhh, good afternoon?”

For once Tsarmina was completely at a loss for words and could only stare at him, jaw open wide. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity she managed to find her voice. “Gingivere, _what in the gates of hell are you doing here?_ ”

Gingivere blushed as red as a rose. “Well, Martin and I really want to see Salamandastron, and we didn’t think it was fair that you got to go and we didn’t, and since no one in Kotir would probably notice us being gone anyways, we, uh, decided to come along.”

Tsarmina grabbed her brother by the scruff of his neck and yanked him up. Gingivere _yelped_ as she glared at him.

“Listen, you. Father wanted you to stay home for a _reason._ Because this is _dangerous_. We could all die at the hands of some common raider, did you think of that? And besides, when he finds out that you two stowed away he’s going to blame _me_ , and I’ll get in even _more_ trouble, and it’ll be all your fault.”

“Not if I tell him it was our idea.” Gingivere sputtered out.

“He’ll blame me anyways. Especially if his precious Martin gets hurt. Speaking of which,” Tsarmina glanced around, “where is the little furball anyways?”

Gingivere finally managed to extract himself from his sister’s claws and plummeted to the ground. Messaging his throat, he told her that the two had stowed away in different parts of the caravan. “I think Martin’s in an apple barrel or something.”

Tsarmina snorted. “Suits him.” Gingivere gave her a funny look, so she changed the subject. “Well, at any rate, we should probably take you to father and get this over with.”

“Shouldn’t we get Martin as well?”

“I’m sure he’ll find his way to father on his own.”

As it turned out, the moment that the mouse had realized who he was talking to he immediately grabbed Martin and took him to Verdauga. Normally Martin would have fought him every step of the way, but he was too caught up in what he had just learned to protest.

_There were people who knew my other father in Moss Town? All this time? Why didn’t father tell me?_ He couldn’t believe it. Was that why father had never let him down into town? Out of fear that he would run into someone who knew his other father? _Was he hiding me?_

Before Martin knew it, the mouse had come across father. Verdauga was sitting on a rock at the edge of the clearing, looking into the woods ahead.

“Lord Verdauga?” The other mouse began. “I know you wanted to speak with me, my lord, but there’s something more important we need to discuss first.”

Verdauga turned. “Ah. Timballisto. What is it that is –” _so important_ , he would have said, but then he noticed his son being carried by the other mouse.

“What is the meaning of this?” Immediately, Martin saw that his father was furious that he’d stowed away. Not half as furious, though, as Martin was with him.

It was this fury that led him to speak. “Why didn’t you ever tell me there were mice in town that knew my other father!? Were you hiding them from me?”

Father looked scandalized. “Of course not! I simply didn’t see it proper that a young mouse be given reign to freely wander into town, particularly because –”

“Then why didn’t you bring to Kotir? I still could’ve talked to them safely, or at least _known_ about them!”

“Martin, I would have told you –”

“When?!” Martin didn’t realize it, but he was yelling at the top of his lungs. “When would you have told me!? You never tell me anything! I didn’t even know my other father’s name before today!”

Feeling profoundly out of place, Timballisto asked if he could leave. Verdauga looked as him as though he’d forgotten the other mouse was even there. “Yes, of course.” After Timballisto had made himself scarce Verdauga looked back at Martin, who at least no longer looked quite as angry. Instead he just looked hurt, which Verdauga thought might actually be worse.

“Why don’t you ever tell me anything? You _know_ I want to know about my other father.”

Verdauga wasn’t sure how to respond. He finally said “Because I didn’t think you were old enough”, but it was more to keep the conversation flowing than anything.

“I’m already seven! How much longer do I have to wait?”

He had a point, he really did. Verdauga had thought about taking him aside after his birthday, in truth, but something had stopped him.

That something he now confessed. “Martin, do you remember how you told me you were afraid that I didn’t see you as my real son?” He continued upon seeing the mouse nod. “Well, I suppose that _I_ was afraid of the opposite: that the more you knew about Luke the Warrior, the more you would see _him_ as your trye father.” He shook his head. “Can you imagine that? Me, afraid of a long-dead creature.”

_That_ took the wind right out of Martin’s sails. “Really? Why?”

Verdauga shrugged. “I don’t know why, only that it was what I was worried about.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense – you’ve always been the one I thought of as my father. Why would that change?”

“It probably wouldn’t, but still, I worried.”

Martin was silent. The thought of his brave, strong father worrying over _anything_ still seemed bizarre, let alone something like _this_. “I’m sorry.” He finally said. “I didn’t know.”

“Nor would I have expected you to.” Verdauga took a deep breath. “Of course, now that you’ve learned that there are mice out there who knew your father, I expect that if I don’t tell you the story you’ll get it from them. And don’t try and deny it,” he added when he saw that Martin was about to protest, “I would do the same in your place.” He closed his eyes and readied himself for the tale to come. “Here it is, as best as I can tell: the story of your father.

“As you know, I first came to Mossflower Country at the head of an army some nine years ago, back when your sister was but a babe. However, I never told you of the first battle I ever waged in Mossflower, and that is where our story begins.

“Southwest of Kotir there is an old church called St. Ninian’s. I entered Mossflower from the Southwest on purpose, in order to put as much distance between me and Salamandastron as I could, and as such that was my first target. At the time I entered Mossflower that church was home to a tribe of mice, led by a master swordsbeast. This, as you can probably guess, was your father, Luke the Warrior.

“My army outnumbered his tribe by at least five to one, and your father was not the sort to needlessly throw away the lives of others. So, in order to both spare his tribe bloodshed and make a decent go at driving me off, he challenged me to single combat under the condition that the loser would leave Mossflower forever.”

“And you accepted?” Martin asked, eyes wide.

“What else was I to do? If I turned him down, my soldiers would see me forever after as ‘the wildcat too craven to fight a mouse’. So I accepted, drew my sword, and we fought. Despite his size, Luke proved the most formidable opponent I have ever faced. I may have been larger and stronger, but when he swung his sword it was as though he was dancing. I still carry a scar from where his blade caught me in the hip.”

“Then how did you beat him?”

“Eventually, I was able to power through his defense and batter him to the ground. Skilled or no, there is only so long that a mouse can battle a wildcat without tiring. And please, for the love of all that is good don’t try and disprove that by attacking your sister.”

“I’m not going to! At least, not unless she attacks me first.”

“I just had to say it, son. Anyways, after I finally managed to force Luke to yield I was about to end it when I realized: he was far too noble to die in such a fashion. There are enough cowards in the world without unjustly cutting down the brave. So, rather than finishing Luke, I spoke to him. ‘Although I have defeated you and by the very terms you set have the right to see you executed and your people driven from Mossflower, your skill with the sword has earned my respect. To strike you down here and exile your people feels wrong. Instead I will offer you a choice,’ I told him, ‘one that will see your tribe unharmed no matter what you choose. You may sheathe your sword and remain here, on this land, as my subjects, and I will protect you from any wandering threats that may do you harm and treat you with respect and dignity. Or you may swear your sword to me and fight alongside me, and if you do I will grant you high status in my new domains. Not to mention that you will have my ear whenever you desire it and wish to influence how I rule.’

‘Why do you want my sword?’ He asked. ‘Don’t you have plenty already?’

‘None with half your skill at arms,’ I replied, ‘Or even a quarter of your bravery. In fact, were you to swear loyalty to me I would have half a mind to make them all sit down and shut up and let you show them how a _real_ swordsbeast fights.’ Luke had laughed at that, and smiled, and then he took his sword and laid it at my feat.

‘I pledge myself to you,’ he said, ‘to guard you and keep you safe from all harm.’ Then, a sly smile spread across his face. ‘And to teach your army how a real swordsbeast fights, of course.’

“And so it was that Luke the Warrior took up residence as my Master-At-Arms. Not long after I took Kotir he moved in with his wife, your mother Seyna. And all was well and happy for several years, particularly after your brother Gingivere was born and then you a year afterwards.

“Then came the plague, and with it everything changed. I will spare you the details of that horrible summer, save that by the time the plague passed from Mossflower both my wife and your mother had passed to the Dark Forest. Both me and Luke grieved for her every day, and eventually our grief grew to such a level that we both took to the field in order to get at least some level of distraction. Our opponent, as fate would have it, was the same weasel we are on our way to battle now. We had planned to ambush Greypaw at his camp by the mountainside, which we hoped would deny him room to manuever and guarantee us the victory.

“Then disaster struck, and _he_ ambushed _us._ I attempted to reach him to turn the tide back in our favor, but before I did I was struck by his archers. I was at his mercy, and death was certain.”

“Then how did you survive?”

“I survived thanks to the mouse that I had spared in front of St. Ninian’s. Luke the Warrior truly earned his title that day. Just before I was felled he sprung out of nowhere and took the arrow meant for me and paid our foes back in kind. With two precise shots both of Greypaw’s best archers were dead, and the weasel himself withdrew. Luke perished soon afterwards on that battlefield, from the arrow he had taken to save me. Before he died, though, he begged that I keep you safe and find someone to care for you. And that, my dear Martin, is how a wildcat wound up taking in a mouse as his son.” He smiled. “I’m certain you know the story from there.”

Martin sat quietly, thinking about the story. There was a _lot_ to think about, to be sure. “He really was brave, wasn’t he?”

“The bravest. And I am proud to say that he was my closest friend.”

Martin felt warm then, in a way he couldn’t explain. He was happy to _finally_ know about his other father, to be sure, but there was something else. Maybe it was because he now knew that his other father had died a hero’s death in the defense of his friend? Whatever the reason, it made him happy.

The moment was interrupted when Gingivere and Tsarmina walked up to them, unaware of either the massive argument earlier or the long tale Verdauga had just finished telling. The sight of his other son, although not exactly unexpected, once again exasperated the old wildcat.

“By the fur!” He groaned. “Do _any_ of my children do what they are told?”


	7. Debriefing

Verdauga had lectured his sons for a solid hour, doing his best to impress upon them how disappointed he was in them and how this wasn’t a game, that where they were going was incredibly dangerous and thus gave them the high possibility of death, and how they’d also both managed to break his trust in them. As far as speeches went it landed fairly well, and both Martin and Gingivere promptly shuffled off feeling incredibly guilty. As punishment Verdauga had commanded them to make their way to the cook and help him make dinner, which they would also have to do every day until they got to Salamandastron and every day on the journey home to Kotir. Provided that they hadn’t been murdered by a searat or captured to serve as oar-slaves for the rest of their lives, of course.

It was for this reason that the two found themselves hunched over a makeshift table skinning trout and filling them with stuffing. It was disgusting work, and Gingivere was sure he was about to vomit.

“ _Why_ did I let you talk me into this again?” He groaned. “This is the most disgusting thing I’ve seen since that poor rat got his brains bashed in during morning drill last summer.”

“At least father isn’t having us scrub out chamber pots.” Martin replied. “And this way we get to eat some of the leftovers.” He grinned. “Extra food!” He’d been strangely happy ever since father had finished lecturing them, Gingivere had noticed.

Gingivere looked down at the trout and tried to imagine himself eating it. The very thought made him want to throw up even more. “Why are you so happy all of a sudden?” He asked his brother, mostly to take his mind off the stupid fish.

“You know that mouse father met with after he kicked us out? Turns out he was actually a friend of my other father! So I went up to _our_ father, all angry and hurt (which I really was, I wasn’t trying to be like Tsarmina and pretend to be mad just to get my way), and before I knew it he told me everything about him! Can you imagine that? After years of asking, I finally know about my blood family.” Martin lapsed back into silence, but it was obvious that he was happy.

Gingivere could understand why. He’d thought quite a bit about what it must be like to not know anything about your real family, especially over the last few months, and how much he would burn to know about them. He was glad that Martin finally had some answers.

He was less glad, of course, when the hedgehog in charge of cooking for everyone in the caravan dumped another load of trout in front of him and told them that they all had to be stuffed within the next hour.

 

Tsarmina was glad to have escaped punishment, although she pitied her brother. Having recently been forced to do work far below her station herself, she could imagine his humiliation at being forced to clean fish and cut vegetables like a common kitchen worker. _Maybe I should go over and help him out_ , she thought. And besides, even though she now knew why her trunk was unlocked she still couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was poisoning father against her. Perhaps her brother knew something. With that in mind, she made her way over to the cook’s station. The hedgepig in charge of cooking was absent, having left to deliver the fruits of Gingivere and Martin’s labors, so she took the opportunity to sit down next to her brother. The poor sap was busily chopping up some vegetables for the stew, and for some reason actually looked strangely relieved. Tsarmina grabbed a knife and made to take some of his pile.

“Here, let me help you with those. I’m not trying to pull anything, I promise.” Gingivere had given her a suspicious look, so she thought it best to make it clear that she meant no harm. She began cutting the vegetables, trying to ignore the part of herself that was pointing out how beneath her this was, and began to make small talk. “Where’s the little fur – I mean, where’s Martin?”

“Off preparing the rest of the fish. He’s a lot better at stomaching it than I am.” Gingivere shuddered, looking sick. “I don’t get how he can gut fish for so long and fill them up with stuffing without throwing up. It’s not fair.”

“He’s a mouse, brother. Mice can’t throw up. It’s not any special toughness on his part, just happenstance from what sort of creature he is. It’s probably the only thing mice have that’s better than us.”

“Really?” Gingivere was impressed. “Wish _I_ could do that.”

The two were silent for some time, until Tsarmina spoke again. “You know, father isn’t exaggerating about the danger.”

“It won’t really be that bad, will it? We’ll be safe behind the walls of Salamandastron the entire time, protected by Boar the Fighter, father, and all their men. It’s an adventure!”

Tsarmina clenched her paws. Here the caravan was, marching to war, and her brother didn’t think it anything more dangerous than a jaunt into Mossflower. How to make him _see_? “It won’t be that simple. You know those stories about the brave heroes who fight evil wherever they go?”

Gingivere nodded. Like all young boys, he loved those stories.

“Do you ever pay attention to how the evil beasts they fight act?” Gingivere shook his head. That wasn’t the point of the story, after all. Seeing this, Tsarmina continued. “You should have. In those stories they always plunder innocents, murder them and take those ‘lucky’ enough to survive as slaves.”

“But the heroes always stop them, don’t they? In every story they kill the evildoers and free the goodbeasts.”

“In _stories_ , yes. But this isn’t a story, brother. This is real. And in the _real_ world, heroes are few and far between. No mystical hero is going to step out of the mists to fight off Greypaw and Vilu Daskar if we get captured.”

 

Up in his end of the caravan, Verdauga was finally able to meet with Timballisto.

“I apologize for making you wait for so long on account of my children.”

The mouse chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t apologize, my lord. They’re young, and at that age when telling them not to do something guarantees that they _will_ do it. I was the same at that age – my parents must have lectured me half a hundred times in the exact same manner as you lectured your sons, and I’m certain yours did the same to you, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Verdauga shook his head. “My father was never the type to lecture. Old Mortspear always went straight for the nearest object to discipline with.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “But that is neither here nor there. We have battle plans to discuss.”

Timballisto took the first few papers from his stack and laid them on the rock Verdauga had been sitting on. “I’ve prepared a few types of ballistic launchers that we might come across. This first one” – he tapped the sheet showing a diagram of a strange looking catapult – “is called an onager. They’re fairly light, but still have a range of about 400 feet. I expect that Daskar’s ship will likely be outfitted with quite a few of these.”

“They don’t look like they could do much damage.”

Timballisto nodded. “Not to a mountain, no.”

“Then why should we be concerned about them?”

“Because they can still do a decent amount of damage to a lighter fortification – like, for example, a wooden palisade or dirt wall. Not to mention that they would still crush a soldier flat.”

“So then the effect would be to trap us in the mountain?”

“More or less.” Timballisto moved to the next set of papers, this one showing a more conventional trebuchet. “This one, as I’m sure you’re aware, is a standard counterweight trebuchet. I expect Greypaw to have these in force.”

“Range?”

“It depends on the sort. Best case scenario, about the same as the onagers. Worst case scenario, double that. And strong enough to perhaps deal damage to Salamandastron itself.” He looked at Verdauga. “You fought him before, did you not? Which do you feel is more likely?”

Verdauga looked at the diagrams and thought about it. Based off Greypaw’s behavior during the raid it seemed more likely that Greypaw would favor the lighter weight, but he wasn’t sure. It depended on how stable the mountain was; the easier of a time Greypaw thought he would have of battering down Salamandastron’s fortifications, the more likely he would be to go heavier. And then there was the issue of their movement speed at present; the slower Greypaw and Daskar moved, the stronger their ballistics.

Verdauga looked back over the notes, seeing if there was any sort of information he could use. “It seems as though their strategy revolves around penning us in Salamandastron and preventing our escape.” He closed his eyes and mulled it over. “Greypaw will use the heavier make. I’m sure of it.”

“My lord?”

“His plan is to trap us in the mountain and batter his way in. And to do that, he needs as heavy artillery as he can dare.”

“And you’re sure?”

“I am. Timballisto, thank you for the information. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

After writing a letter to Boar warning him about his fears and entrusting it to a courier, Verdauga realized that is was dinner time. He got a tiny smile out of that. _Time to see if my son’s punishments mean better food, or worse._

As it turned out, disciplined Greeneyes made for excellent fish and salad platters.


	8. Salamandastron

Finally, after two weeks’ hard march they reached Salamandastron. Martin was exhausted: the army had traveled at a rigorous pace of some 23 miles per day as father had insisted that they cover the vast distance between Kotir and their destination as fast as possible, and between his kitchen duties and the sheer pace of the marching the little mouse was about at the end of his rope. By the time the army passed over mountpit and began making its way across the great plain surrounding their destination, Martin completely regretted ever sneaking along.

Then they got up close to the great mountain and all his exhaustion was forgotten.

“By the fur!” As Salamandastron loomed above him, all Martin could do was gape. It had to be at least four thousand feet tall, pointed straight up from the plane, and topped in a jagged point that thrust upwards through the clouds.

“I can’t believe we made it.” Gingivere had come up behind him, completely unnoticed. The wildcat was just as enthralled with the mountain as his brother. “This has to be the biggest mountain in the world, don’t you think? It’s so _huge!!_ ”

Martin nodded. The idea that anything could be bigger than it was impossible to consider. As the army slowly made their way towards the gates of Salamandastron, Martin found himself wondering what Boar was like. If Salamandastron was this big, what kind of beast did it take to rule it?

He got his answer shortly, for arrayed just outside the gates were all the hares of the Long Patrol, the pride of the mountain and its’ stalwart defenders. And in the middle of all of them stood their leader.

Clad in solid steel and wielding a broadsword the size of an otter, the badger cut an impressive figure. He gazed out at the approaching woodlanders with a solemn, stately look on his face, as if he were carved from stone. Indeed, Boar appeared more like a god than a mere Badger Lord. And he was _huge_! At least two heads bigger than Verdauga and half again as wide, Martin had never seen a beast quite like him. Immediately, he knew that he was dealing with a living legend.

Boar’s eyes swept over Verdauga’s forces, taking them in, assessing their strengths and weaknesses, before focusing on their leader. Verdauga stepped in front of his army and bowed.

“My Lord Boar, I have come in response to your call for aid.” The wildcat drew his sword. “So long as we of Kotir and Mossflower yet live, we will fight alongside you.”

Boar took in his opposite, trying to get the measure of the creature who had replaced him as Mossflower’s lord. He liked what he saw, he had to admit, so he nodded in response to Verdauga’s statement. “Then I bid you welcome, Lord Verdauga, to Salamandastron.” The tiniest of smiles poked out of his face. “Come, we have much to discuss, but before that I wish to show you around. Although I imagine that the road was long, I hope you still have enough strength to tour my mountain. The views from the summit are particularly worth the climb, in my opinion.”

Unable to contain his excitement any further, Martin dashed out. “Oh, can we father? Please? _Please?_ Maybe we can see Kotir from up there!”

Verdauga made to hustle his son back in line before Boar noticed, but it was too late. “Who is this, now?”

Verdauga sighed and restrained himself from facepalming. “This is Martin, my son.”

Boar raised an eyebrow. “I…wasn’t expecting you to bring your young ones.”

“Nor was I, but when they pop out of barrels and trunks four hours out from Mossflower they have a way of sticking along with you.”

“Are there _more?_ ” Boar chuckled, then started guffawing, his whole frame convulsing with laughter. “By the fur, Verdauga! ‘When they pop out of barrels’ indeed! Oh, they must be mighty brave children you brought!” He finally calmed himself somewhat. “Well, go on then! Show me them all.”

Well and truly embarrassed, Verdauga bade for Gingivere and Tsarmina. Both came to the front, Gingivere guiltily and Tsarmina haughtily, and stood with their father and brother.

“Well then, now that all three are here, please allow me to give them a more formal introduction.”

“By all means.” Boar didn’t bother hiding his smile.

“My lord, these are my children, Tsarmina, Gingivere, and Martin. Tsarmina was the only one I intended to bring along, but I hope that you can forgive my sons the imposition on your hospitality.”

Boar nodded gravely, trying not to laugh at Verdauga’s hyper-formality. “If Salamandastron has room for my army and yours, it has room for an extra wildcat and mouse.” He turned. “Come, there is much I want to show you.” Boar marched back through the gates. Verdauga followed, alternating between glaring daggers at his son and trying to muster as much dignity as he could. Poor Gingivere looked as though he wanted to be _anywhere_ but there, while Tsarmina was scandalized that Boar had laughed at them. As for Martin, he was too excited to see the mountain to care.

 

The mountain was all Gingivere and Martin had hoped it would be and more. Boar’s tour of the mountain took two full hours, and by the time weary travelers made their way to the Great Hall for their supper even Verdauga was panting heavily from the exertion. Their route up and down the mountain had taken them from the glittering pool at the very bottom up through the living quarters, through a library that Boar said held five thousand books, past a great forge hot enough to spew fire out the top of the mountain and with billows so large that only a badger could even dream of working them, and finally up to the summit. There boar had built a sort of viewing platform where he could survey the land in all directions, completely with an oddly-squishy armchair and some sort of looking glass. Martin had loved that; although he sadly hadn’t been able to see home as he’d hoped, the ability to sit four thousand feet up and look down at the seashore so clearly that it was as if he was standing right above it more than made up for it. For reasons he couldn’t understand, however, his father had come down from the summit looking incredibly grim. _Is it because of me?_ He thought. _I hope I didn’t embarrass him_.

Then it was off to dinner, where the Long Patrol served their exhausted guests a feast even greater than the one Kotir had thrown to welcome captain Lawrence Derfield Swishtail. While the hares and squirrels gorged themselves on toasted bread topped with sweet potato and kale alongside spiced rolls fresh from the ovens, the carnivores among the feasters enjoyed spicy bone-in steak and fluffy croque madame. The food was delicious, and for once not even a single nasty word passed between any of the Greeneyes siblings.

Up on the high table, their father was in a much poorer mood, and spent the entire feast idly picking at his food and largely ignoring Boar’s attempts to make small talk. Finally, when he’d had enough sitting around, he addressed the badger.

“May we talk somewhere, Boar? In private?”

Boar was a bit confused, but he nodded and got up. When they were alone, he looked at Verdauga with a curious look on his face. “I noticed that you seemed preoccupied back in there. If you’re still brooding over your children, I can assure you that they’re no –”

Verdauga shook his head. “I’m not worried about the way my son acted out there. I’m worried about what I saw up on the summit. When I looked northwards I saw fires. And lots of them, scarcely half a day’s march from here.” He looked Boar straight in the eye. “Why are we feasting when we should be preparing for war?”

“Because tonight is the last chance we will get for some time. I know it, you know it, my hares know it and your soldiers know it. When Greypaw and Daskar arrive, it will mean bloodshed. Many of the creatures in there may die before the battle’s done.”

“You think I don’t know that!?” Verdauga didn’t realize he was shouting. “What do you think has been on my mind every waking second since I left Mossflower!? _You_ might think it’s well and good to feast the night away with an army of rapists and pillagers on your doorstep, but that doesn’t mean we all do!”

“Mind yourself, cat.” Boar’s tone grew sharp. “I may be treating you as my equal, but this is still _my_ mountain.”

“And those are _my_ children!” Verdauga was really shouting now. “I only brought Tsarmina because I hoped that this might somehow serve as a lesson, and my sons never should have been here in the first place! And even then, I only brought her because I thought she’d be safe, that we’d arrive here and find an army bristling for war, not a damned buffet! How are we supposed to drive them off with food, huh? Just lob kale at Greypaw and hope he’s allergic to it?”

“ _Do NOT speak to me in such a manner!_ ” Boar thundered. He glared at Verdauga, almost ready to strike him, until he realized that he was losing control. Then, with deep breaths, the badger tried to calm himself. “Do you take me for such a fool that you think I’ve just been sitting idly by while Greypaw and Daskar march south? I have prepared, I can tell you that.”

“How?” Verdauga was incredulous. “Show me.”

“Very well.” Boar began walking away, down the mountain. After a few minutes he came to a small alcove and stopped. “There are areas like this hewed into the rock all over the mountain.” He gestured around the space. “Each one will be manned by a pair soldiers – archers towards the ground and the middle, rock and oil-droppers farther up.” He bade Verdauga to lean his head out the window. “Do you see those slots at the base of the mountain? Each one has a heavy ballista within, perfect to smash any sort of heavy armaments our enemies bring with them.”

Verdauga nodded. “You got my message, then? About my thoughts on the subject?”

“What message? We had naught from you until you were close enough to see with our own eyes.” Boar frowned. “There was no message. Anyways, I hope that this helps set your mind at ease. Also, you did not see on the way in, but the northwards side of the mountain is ringed with trenches for our creatures to hide in. We have also stocked up enough food to last us for several months – certainly longer than they will be able to manage scrounging around outside.”

Verdauga should have been relieved, but the fact that his courier had apparently never made it here unnerved him. “Those trenches won’t do much good, I fear.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because from what I expect, any beast that finds himself outside Salamandastron will be pounded into dust. Ask for a mouse named Timballisto. He can tell you more.”

 

Back at the feast, Gingivere had noticed something very strange: unlike at home, all the hares in the Long Patrol and their attachés feasted together without any sort of hierarchy. Captain Lawrence sat next to a washerwoman, officers sat next to privates, and even Boar had personally served food to what looked like a new recruit. Compared to back home, where the separation between the officers and their men or the Greeneyes family and everyone else was immediately noticeable, it was strange. He pointed out what he’d noticed to his siblings, both of which seemed less-than-interested.

“What of it?” Tsarmina replied between mouthfuls. “If that badger wants to eat alongside some hares let him. It makes no difference for us.”

“But isn’t it strange, though, that everyone here seems so much more, well _equal_?”

She rolled her eyes. “Gingivere, you think too much about things that don’t matter in the slightest.”

Gingivere turned to Martin, who only shrugged. “Maybe it’s just how Boar runs things here.”

 _It’s still odd,_ he thought. _Maybe father should do something like this at home, so we can get to know the people in Moss Town better._

Speaking of father, he and Boar had returned after their hasty exit, and both looked serious. What was the matter? Had something happened?

Before he could think on it, though, a hare burst through the door, wild-eyed and scared. “I have a message for you, Boar!” He yelled.

“What is it, then?”

The hare panted and tried to compose himself. “It’s that rotter Greypaw. He says that he wants to speak with you.”

Boar stood up. “When.”

“Now, I’m afraid. He and Daskar await just outside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m probably overestimating the distance between Kotir and Salamandastron by a good bit, but for the sake of the story I’m assuming that there’s about 320 miles between the two sites. Initially I figured about double that, a figure I got after a loooooooooong process of using the poem Martin, Bella and Gonff decode in Chapter 19 of Mossflower to see what sort of bird I needed to use for distance measurement, figuring out the average hourly flight speed of geese, looking up the amount of hours a city midway up England gets a day during the summer, and multiplying the two numbers together before dividing by the number of hours Harold Godwinson marched in a day back in 1066, but that seems a bit too far all things considered.  
> Also I know that the Redwall series doesn’t actually use things like steak and beef for the most part, considering the complete lack of hooved animals in any of the books (save for the horse Cluny’s horde rides in on in the first book), but in order to give my meat-eaters a more varied diet than fish, fish, and more fish I’ve decided to waive that and just say that ungulates exist in-verse and just aren’t sentient.


	9. Calm Before The Storm

Everyone who heard froze, woodlanders and Thousand-eyes and Long Patrol alike, terrified. It was one thing to know that their enemy was on the march: that they stood right _outside_ , meaning that battle was at most hours away, was entirely another matter. Everyone looked down at their plates, realized that they may have just ate their last meal, looked back at their leaders, and began shouting.

“Outside? Greypaw and Daskar? _Now?_ ”

“We should have been watching, not eating!”

“If we’re this unawares what chance to we have?”

“We’re all doomed!”

“SILENCE!” Lady Amber’s voice cut through the panicked hall like a whip. “We are _not_ doomed! The way I see it, at the moment it’s merely Greypaw and Daskar and no-one else, not their whole army.”

“And what of it?”

“It means that we have some time. They came here to talk, I assume. We use that time to start preparing for the actual attack.” She gave the hall a reassuring smile. “They haven’t caught us with our trousers down just yet.”

Boar cleared his throat. “Exactly. Everyone, remain calm. This moment has been prepared for, and we are not defenseless. But first, let us hear what they have to say. I don’t expect any terms that are actually feasible, but as Lady Amber said any moment we can use to prepare is a good moment. While Verdauga and I meet them, the rest of you get to your posts. Captain Lawrence, Captain Harklight, meet me with twenty of your best outside the door in ten minutes.” Boar turned and left, leaving the hare captains to choose who they wanted to bring. As they bade the Long Patrol line up for inspection Verdauga cleared his throat and addressed his own forces.

“Good creatures of Mossflower, remember that I did not bring you here to die. We have the advantage of a sturdy mountain, higher ground, and a rather impressive badger to help us carry the day. When we fight later remember that, and” – he gave a quick look at his children, a look full of regret and hidden fear – “remember that we are fighting to save this mountain, our woods, and everyone that lives in between from a life in chains, a life enslaved to corsairs who would rape and plunder to their hearts’ content. I won’t tell you not to be afraid, but to consider the following: as a great creature once said, ‘true courage is being scared to death – but getting up anyway’. So use your fear, use it to protect the creatures and land you love.” He looked towards his commanders, the creatures he was counting on to lead the fighters of Mossflower through this struggle. “Ashleg, Amber, Skipper. Ten of your best from each of your commands, in the front hall along with the Long Patrol. Boar will not stand alone when fighting comes, and he will not stand alone now.”

The three nodded and began shouting orders to their soldiers. As they did Verdauga descended to reach his children. All three of them were terrified, he could see that.

He bent down on his knees, sinking to their levels. “Tsarmina, Gingivere, Martin, I’m sorry about all of this. I made a mistake in thinking any of you should be here.”

“Are we going to die, father?” Tsarmina asked in a voice smaller than Verdauga had ever heard from her. He wanted to shake his head, tell her _no, I promise that we will live through this_ , but there was no sense lying to any of them.

“Oh, Tsarmina, I would promise you that if I could, but nothing is certain. But I can promise you this.” He drew his sword and planted it at the feet of his children, if for no other reason than to give himself something to lean on. “I vow that so long as I breathe I will _not let them harm you_. And if any of them do, I will throw him off Salamandastron myself.”

“What should we do, father?” Gingivere looked every much the child he was. “Should we hide?”

Verdauga wanted them to, desperately. But as much as he knew they should, he told them otherwise. “No. Not while we are just parlaying. All three of you may be lords and ladies someday, and you need to learn how this game is played.” He sighed. “And we might as well start now. Watch closely how we talk and how our opposites do.” _Really? Teaching them NOW?_ A part of his brain was indignant. _It has to be done,_ he replied, _they have to learn at some point_. He got up, straightened his cloak, and made to meet Boar. It was time to face their enemies.

 

Vilu Daskar and Greypaw the Bloody stood at the head of a contingent about sixty strong, mostly searats and weasels with the odd ferret. Across them stood twenty hares of the Long Patrol, ten Thousand-Eyes, ten squirrels, and ten otters. Looking them over, Verdauga wondered how many would live to see the end of this fight.

Greypaw was the first to speak, smirking that insolent smirk Verdauga remembered so well. “Lord Boar. I see you brought some help.” He tilted his head at Verdauga. “Do I know you, cat? I swear you look familiar. Did I run you out of a hovel, maybe?”

Verdauga fought to keep his emotions in check. “Six winters ago. Mossflower. Your forces ambushed mine and nearly killed me.”

Greypaw shrugged. “That could be a lot of things, cat. I’ve been rather active.” He turned back to Boar. “I’m assuming you haven’t come out to cede two countries to us for the price of one? Although, it would be rather nice of you.”

Boar was as a stone. “Name your terms, weasel. None of this empty chatter.”

“Right to the point, are we? I like getting things done quickly.” He looked at Amber and licked his lips. She opened her mouth to retort, but before she could Daskar stepped forwards.

“Our terms are simple, insofar as these things go. We ask that you disarm and allow us to come into your mountain and melt down all your arms. Then you are to swear fealty to us and promise to serve us until the end of days.”

“As slaves?” Boar asked.

“If you wish to be blunt, yes. But fear not – so long as you are obedient, we will be fair and just masters.”

“And what of us from Mossflower?”

“We will admit that we hadn’t factored you in, cat, when we drew up these terms. But in light of that I’m sure we can come to some agreement.” Daskar noticed Verdauga’s children standing behind him. “Like, perhaps, taking one of your two young ones as a ward and receiving your oath as our vassal to never take up arms against us. Fair, is it not?”

“Hostages and a promise to sit idly by while you rampage around the countryside?” Verdauga snorted. “I think not. And besides, we of Mossflower have debts that need paying from your companion over there.”

Greypaw clapped his paws. “Ooooooh, that’s why you looked familiar. I remember now!” He grinned. “How’d those arrow shots turn out? I hope you made a full recovery – I would _hate_ to have crippled you.”

“Somehow I doubt that, weasel.”

Daskar held up a paw. “This is getting us nowhere. Lord Boar, do you accept our terms?”

Boar didn’t even deign to respond, opting instead to spit on the ground.

Daskar sighed. “Very well, the. On both your heads be it.”

“Are all parlays that…heated?” Martin asked as Daskar and Greypaw marched off.

“Only the bad ones, my son.”

 

Back inside the mountain Boar and Verdauga hunched over battle plans with their commanders.

“From our intelligence,” Boar explained, “we imagine that they will have about seven hundred fighters between the two of them, concentrated mostly with Greypaw. As of now the Long Patrol has roughly two hundred Hares.” He looked at Verdauga. “How many fighters did you say you brought, again?”

“Roughly four hundred and eighty Thousand-Eyes, fifty archers, and two hundred woodland auxiliaries carrying javelins and slings.”

“Good, good. So we hold the numerical advantage as well as geographical. Unfortunately it’s too dangerous to form up outside the mountain to give battle, but as long as we stay in the mountain we can use those numbers to pick them off.”

“Whittle away at the blighters, you mean?” Rence interjected. “Won’t work, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?”

“Me and that mouse Timballisto had ourselves a look-see at their camp when you were off showing the Greeneyes around the place. We noticed some fifteen trebuchets under Greypaw.”

“Can they punch through the mountain?” Verdauga asked.

“Probably not the solid rock, but I wouldn’t be so sure about the weaker parts around the windows.”

“They could probably also cause a hell of a cave-in if they hit high enough.” Skipper noted. He turned to Amber. “Any way you could get them at range?”

She shook her head. “Not with arrows, no. We could try setting them on fire, I suppose, but I’d rather not try something so risky.”

Verdauga sighed. “We might have to. Boar – you said you had some ballistae in the fort, right? Could those work?”

“Possibly, but it depends on how far away the trebuchets are positioned. Too far, and it will be more trouble than it’s worth to try and hit them. It’s a right puzzle, if you ask me.” He looked over at Ashleg, who had been silent the whole time, as if just noticing him. “You there, pine marten. Do you have any ideas?”

Ashleg frowned and studied the plans. “If I may make a suggestion, I could send some of the Thousand-Eyes out on a stealth mission. Some of the cunningest and quietest ought to be able to take at least a few out.”

“But that’s suicide!” Skipper shook his head. “You’ll be sending them to their deaths.”

“Acceptable losses, I’m afraid.”

“But –”

“He’s right.” Now it was Harklight’s turn to speak. “This is war. Better a few die to save the many, I’m afraid.” He turned to Ashleg. “Would you care for some backup? I’ve a few stealthy hares myself.”

“If you think your hares can cut it. But remember: we won’t wait for you if you slow down.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, old chap.”

Boar nodded. “It will have to do. So it seems we have the makings of a plan: while Ashleg and Harklight take their creatures out to attack the trebuchets, we focus on holding the mountain stalling. Then we can hold our enemies off until they starve and retreat and if circumstances permit we take the opportunity to strike them in the rear. Are we in agreement?”

There were a chorus of _ayes_ from around the table.

 

Over in the enemy camp, Daskar and Greypaw hunched over plans of their own.

“Not exactly an easy nut to crack.” Greypaw opined as he munched on a leg of venison. “Even with the trebuchets.”

Daskar rolled his eyes at his counterpart’s lack of cleanliness. “Must you eat at the table?”

“Why not? You have your vices, I have mine. Regardless we had best get planning.” He tapped the map of Salamandastron at the front gate. “Here. We strike here. With a battering ram.”

“At the front gate? Are you _mad?_ ”

“Possibly, but, if we do this right we could see ourselves sitting in the mountain within a few hours.”

Daskar snorted. “Only if the fools decide to be merciful and not pepper us with arrows.”

“They won’t.”

“How in the _gates of hell_ is that possible?”

Greypaw sighed. “Vilu, you spend too much time on the seas thinking about plunder. You don’t _know_ creatures. Fortunately for us, I do. I know how they think, what they value, and, most importantly, how they see themselves.”

“And how does any of that help us?”

“Simple: Boar and any creatures similar enough in mind to ally with him see themselves as the heroes, so they have lines they refuse to cross. All we have to do is get them to the point where the defense of Salamandastron would require them to cross one of those lines, and either they cross it and crush their own morale or refuse to cross it and let us keep bashing our way in.”

Daskar’s eyes lit up. “I see. Excellent. I think I know the best way to do that, too – I’ll give the orders to my corsairs to round up some slaves. In the meantime, though, we should probably think about how to deal with another problem – they have more men then us.”

“Easy. We take advantage of Verdauga’s children. Since he cares for them I imagine that he’ll have them stored away on some part of the mountain as far from the fighting as they can be. Knowing that, we can…” he paused. What best to do?

“Do you have any stealthy climbers?” Daskar asked.

“Why?”

“Like you said: know how your enemies think. If Verdauga thinks his two little ones are in danger he’s like to panic and split his forces to protect him. Parents always sacrifice everything they can for their children.”

Greypaw nodded. “Ah, yes. And if we dilute their forces, that just makes it even easier to batter our way in the front gate.” He looked Daskar straight in the eyes. “Vilu, I think we have a plan.”

 


	10. Start of the Battle

_Fooooooooooooooooooooooo_

The war trumpets were shouting across Salamandastron. Greypaw and Daskar were less than half an hour away, bearing their entire force. It was time for battle. Trying not to think about how this could be the last time he was about to see any of them, Verdauga swept his children up in a hug.

“I want you to stay put, you hear me? No heroics. No matter what’s happening, no matter what you think’s going to happen, _stay put until someone from Mossflower or Salamandastron says that it’s safe_. And even then, if you think for even a _second_ that it might be a trap or some trick, _stay where you are_. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, father.” Was the universal answer.

“Good. Now follow Blacktooth – he’ll get you to safety.” The three turned to leave, but Verdauga put his paw on Tsarmina’s shoulder.

“What is it, father?”

“Tsarmina, you’re the oldest, so I’m asking you to keep your brothers safe. _Both_ of them. Now’s not the time for petty squabbles. So _please_.”

“I will, father.” Whether she was telling the truth or lying, Verdauga wasn’t sure. Neither was she, for that matter.

Verdauga watched his daughter march off, hoping and praying that they’d be safe.

_“Take care of them, my love, take care of them._ ”

 

He met Boar in the great hall. Both had assembled all their power, all their warriors, all their creatures and it was to them that they spoke.

Boar went first. “Hares of the Long Patrol, my brothers and sisters in arms. For years on end we have guarded this coast from the depredations of vermin hordes, starting with my father, Lord Brocktree, and his captains Dorthea and Bucko. Together they retook this mountain from the murderous rogue Ungatt Trunn and his Blue Hordes. Today we carry on that legacy. Just as we speak of Brocktree, Dorthea and Bucko, so too will our children speak of Boar, Rence, and Harklight. But we do not fight for this glory: we fight because it is right! Because a world of chains and slavery is unthinkable! We fight so these _vermin_ will never spread their reigns of fear and terror over the innocent! When we strike a blow today, we strike a blow for _all_ who stand up to tyranny and chains! We fight – _for Salamandastron and Freedom!_ ”

“FOR SALAMANDASTRON AND FREEDOM!”

“EULALIAAAAAAAAA!”

“EULALIAAAAAAAAA!”

Once the hares were all riled up, it was Verdauga’s turn. His struggle, he imagined, would be harder – he not only had to convince creatures loyal to him to fight and maybe die, but do the same to ones that maybe still resented his rule.

“Creatures of Mossflower, I know what I am asking you is a tall order. I will not try to convince you of the rightness of battle against slavers, for if Boar’s words have not done that, what hope do I have? No, my aim is to convince you why we fight _here_ , and _now._ As I said last night, we fight here to keep our homes safe. We aid the hares to save our own loved ones.

“I know that there are those out there now who may still resent my rule and think ‘Boar is still the true ruler of Mossflower.’ I do not shame you for that. I have done all I can to rule Mossflower well, to guarantee your safety and prosperity, to ensure that raiders like the ones we are to fight never make it to your doorsteps, but if you still hold Boar the Fighter in your hearts I will not begrudge you this. Instead, I will ask you to use it. Use your love for him, your fond memories of his rule to defend him. If you do not feel compelled to fight for the ruler of today, fight for the ruler of yesterday. Fight to safeguard his legacy.” 

The speech did a bit to rile everyone up, but not enough. Thinking about his next words Verdauga decided to give one last appeal, one aimed not to reach their courage but their anger.“And one more thing. Fight because they deserve it. Fight because Greypaw got it into his head that he has the right to Lady Amber. That he would claim her for his own and have his way for her.”

As intended this set of a chorus of outraged shouts. Amber was rather popular at all, and at her sullen confirmation at least half the room began shouting even further and stamping their feet.

“So then, see every raider in that light. Imagine the sweet sensation of putting an arrow in them. If you need extra encouragement, just imagine each dead enemy as a little kick in Greypaw’s balls.” It wasn’t as outwardly charismatic as Boar’s speech, but it got them riled up enough.  

“Everyone! To your positions! To war!”

As the combined armies of Mossflower and Salamandastron prepped Verdauga found a somewhat annoyed squirrel bearing down on him.

“While I appreciate you getting the everyone in the mood to fight, my lord, please ask me next time before you share something like that out loud. Yes, it whipped everyone up, but if you don’t mind I feel as though such a thing is really something only I ought to speak of.”

“I understand.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry for any offense, my lady.” Verdauga put on his helmet. Now, if you excuse me, we have a battle to fight.”

 

Away from the din of last-minute preparations, Tsarmina, Gingivere and Martin followed Blacktooth further up the mountain. To somewhere safe, they all hoped. But where to they had no idea, so Martin decided to ask.

“Up to the lesser forge. Normally it’s only open to the Lord of this place, but that badger’s decided that things being as they are right now means that it’s the safest place for you lot.”

“But is it safe, though? Really?” Tsarmina was more scared than Martin had ever seen in his life; had it not been for the fact that it was because they were about to be attacked by a pair of psychotic vermin, he might have actually enjoyed watching her sweat a little.

“About as safe as we can be at the moment. It’s high up and far enough in the mountain that it should be safe from any projectiles.”

“But what if –”

“Shush. Less talking, more moving.” The four continued their silent climb upwards, up and up and up to the very top of the mountain. Finally, when they reached the top Blacktooth stopped outside a massive crack in the wall. It looked for all the world like someone had pushed the very stone like a massive door. Blacktooth hustled the three of them inside and lit some torches.

Immediately, three pairs of eyes opened wide in amazement. “By the _fur.”_ Gingivere spoke for all three of the siblings, and it was no mystery as to why: the room they found themselves in was immense in size, with one wall covered in tiny carvings of beasts of all types and depicting all manner of scenes, while the very end was carved into an alcove playing host to a massive throne and an even more massive stone badger. “What _is_ this place?” Gingivere whispered.”

Blacktooth shrugged. “No clue, little cat. Some sort of tomb, I’d wager?”

“Look at these carvings!” Tsarmina had bent down to examine the wall, and she gasped. “There’s one that looks like father!” Martin and Gingivere hurried over and were surprised to see that she was right: carved into the wall was a miniature wildcat carrying the shield of Verdauga Greeneyes. The miniature carving faced another, a smaller one that looked to be a little mouse. Martin felt a swooping sensation: the two were outside a building and surrounded on one side by an army in uniform and the other by a ragtag group of other mice. It was the duel between Verdauga Greeneyes and Luke the Warrior, and there could be no mistake.

_Boom_

The three were interrupted by the sound of a hollow bang from outside. The room shook the tiniest bit, and when Martin looked back up at Blacktooth he saw that the weasel was as pale as a ghost.

“That was a trebuchet.” Blacktooth looked like he was about to be sick. “It’s started.” He looked the three children straight in the eyes. “Stay. Here. Don’t leave, no matter what. Your father’s orders.” He whirled around and left, and before any of the others could protest the wall began to slowly close. Then, they were all alone in the room, with nothing but the carvings and the statue to distract them.

Tsarmina hugged Gingivere. “I’ll protect you,” she whispered, “I’ll keep you safe.” She looked over at Martin. “Uh, and you as well, just this once.”

Martin was too afraid to register what was probably the first show of affection his sister had ever showed him.

 

After the first warning shots from the trebuchets everything grew deathly quiet. Standing with Boar, waiting for the next move, Verdauga swore he could hear the badger’s heartbeat. He looked over. Amber stood to his right, an arrow already notched and ready to fly. Next to her stood Skipper, javelin in hand. Both were completely tense, and in that moment Verdauga knew that there would be no doubting the fighting spirit the woodlanders would show today.

“Why don’t the blighters _do something?_ ” Rence muttered. “We’re just sitting up here in an alcove staring at them like it’s a blooming contest.”

Verdauga frowned: what _were_ they doing? Their army had formed up and the trebuchets were just out of ballista range, so what were they waiting for? Hoping for some last-minute surrender?

Then, a flaming arrow shot up from the front of Greypaw’s lines, and as it did a great clamor grew up. The army of Vermin charged forwards, shouting phrases the defenders were too far away to make out. As they did so, the trebuchets began launching their payloads.

_Boom_

_Boom_

_BOOM_

One hit right above where they were, shaking the alcove and letting loose a curtain of dust. Once it had cleared, Boar shouted in response to the clamor.

“Archers, NOCK!”

The order worked its way down the lines, and as it did Verdauga heard the strings of a hundred bows tightened.

“DRAW!”

The vermin drew closer.

“LOOSE!”

The air sung with arrows then, shooting downwards and shooting up. Perhaps barely one in twenty from the defenders hit a mark, and even fewer for the vermin. The army had stopped marching now and formed up in a mighty turtle formation. Every so often arrows continued to whistle out from cracks between the shields, almost always missing.

“What are they even aiming at?” Skipper asked.

“I have no idea.” Amber narrowed her eyes. “They’re organized, but they’re not fighting in any rational way. Even the trebuchets aren’t doing much.”

And it seemed to be true: from what little Verdauga could see from his position it seemed like the projectiles were all just bouncing off the mountain.

“Maybe they’re showing off?” Rence suggested.

Boar shook his head. “No, that’s not it.”

“But then what?” Verdauga had no idea what they were planning. “As things stand we’re picking them off one-by-one from up here.” He looked back down. “It’s almost as if they’re trying to…” His stomach did a back flip. _Blasted hellgates._ He looked at Boar. “It’s a diversion!”

“Not possible. Where else could they attack from?”

There was only one place Verdauga could think of. “From the top.”

Right where his children were hiding.

_“Take care of them, my love, take care of them.”_

Panicking, Verdauga addressed the woodlanders and Thousand-Eyes. “Skipper, Cludd, take half your forces up the mountain! They’re going to attack from above and strike our backs!”

Boar whirled on the wildcat. “Are you _insane_ , Greeneyes? We can’t split our forces now!”

“We have to! I’m not letting them get after my children!”

 

“Well,” Greypaw smiled, “Looks like the rain of arrows is cooling off somewhat.”

Daskar looked at the mountain. “Seems to be so.” He chuckled. “Looks like Verdauga fell for it.” He turned and gestured to some of his soldiers. “Ready the battering ram. Make sure the slaves manning it are…fresh.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Daskar turned back to Salamandastron. “Well, Boar, I do hope that we’ve got you figured out the way we think we do.”

 

Back up in the mountain, Boar and Verdauga continued to argue.

“What _proof_ is there that this is a diversion? You’re wasting your soldiers on _nothing_!”

“What proof? Open your eyes, Boar! If they were truly attacking from the front, why would they be wasting their arrows and stones like this?”

“You’re letting your fear for your children cloud your judgement. There is no attack!”

“SHUT IT, BOTH OF YOU!” It was Rence, angered. Badger and wildcat alike stared at him. “There’s some sort of battering ram coming up with another turtle.”

And so there was. As Boar and Verdauga leaned out to look they saw a monstrous log being wheeled towards them.

Boar sighed. “Well, diminished forces or know it’s still not something we can’t handle. Although” – he squinted – “Is it just me, or do the vermin wheeling it forwards look a bit…small?”

Verdauga squinted as well. “Now that you mention it, they do.” He looked over at Rence. “Are corsairs smaller than land creatures or something?”

“No, that’s not it.” Amber’s voice was shaking. “Not _that_ small. And how many corsairs do you know that are actually hedgehogs and squirrels?”

“You don’t mean?”

“I’m afraid so. Those aren’t corsairs. They’re slaves.”

All of them stared down in horror. 

“The _bastards!_ ” Rence swore.

“And not just any slaves.” Shaking like a leaf, Lady Amber dropped her bow.

“They’re children. Those vermin are using _children._ ”


	11. Battles Inside, Battles Outside

Even hidden up on the top of the mountain, the Greeneyes children could still hear the sounds of war, be it the distant cries of fighting creatures or the echoing _thud_ of stones smashing into the mountainside, but at the moment everything was still safe. Gingivere huddled beneath the immense statue, shaking, while Tsarmina sat in front of him with a little dagger in her paw and Martin paced around the front of the room. He was sick of waiting in the dark, sick of not knowing what was going on. What if everyone outside was dying _right now_? Finally, he’d had enough and began trying to shimmy out of the room.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Gingivere hissed when he saw him. “ _Father said we have to stay here!_ ”

“I’m tired of waiting like this! I want to see what’s going on! And _my_ other father wouldn’t just wait around like this – he’d fight, I know he would!” Martin was sure about that. There was no way the brave mouse who challenged Verdauga Greeneyes would just hide around in a cave when everyone was in danger!

“And he’s _dead_ now, isn’t he?” Tsarmina’s voice was both annoyed and somewhat angry. “Come on, Martin. You always yammer on about how our father is really yours and all that, so act like it for once!”

Martin paused for a moment. For once his sister was right, he knew, but something she’d said rankled.

“ _Oh, but your father’s dead now, isn’t he?_ ”

He clenched his paws. “Shut up.” He growled. “You just don’t want father to yell at you. You don’t care about me one bit, do you?” And then, before either of the wildcats could say anything, their brother stole outside. Gingivere immediately jumped up and ran after him.

“Martin! Come back!” 

But he was gone, and Gingivere was too large to squeeze through the crack. He wheeled on his sister. “Why?”

“Why what? I was trying to keep the little furball safe! I didn’t want him to run off and get himself killed!”

Gingivere was undaunted. For the first time in his life he saw red, and there was no way he was going to let his sister dominate him like she always tried to do. Not now. Not when, even if at the moment she was trying to play nice, her relentless bullying had just sent their brother scurrying off into a battlefield. “That’s what I’m talking about. ‘The little furball.’ Why do you always treat him like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s just some bug for you to flick away! You hit him, call him names, tell everyone you can that he’s just some peasant mouse that happens to live with us, and you’ve _always_ done that! Ever since I was little you’ve always told me ‘he’s not family, don’t care about him’, and I’m sick of it!” 

Tsarmina was shocked. Her brother was _never_ this angry. _What’s gotten into HIM?_ She thought. _Is he THIS scared?_ But that didn’t make any sense. She knew her brother, and she knew that when he was afraid his first instinct was to hide away in a corner and wait for the trouble to leave, not flare up and start yelling his lungs off. _What’s behind this?_

Then, she knew. She looked her brother straight in the eye and glared. “I should have known. He’s turned you against me, hasn’t he?”

Gingivere was confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb!” She yelled. “It’s that little idiot, isn’t it! Filling your head with stories and tales so that he can run me out of Kotir!” She smiled, a fierce, insane smile that made her look like she was about to rip out someone’s throat. “Well, I’m not going to let him! Let the searats kill him – if they don’t maybe I will!”

Gingivere slapped her across the face.

“I don’t know why I ever listened to you.” He didn’t sound angry, not really, just…sad. Sad that, even at eight years old, he had somehow realized the path his sister was beginning to head down.

Tsarmina was caught dead in her tracks, but only for the moment. Then, even angrier, she rounded on her brother. “Don’t…you…ever…do…that…again.” Her voice lowered an octave. “Or I swear that I will make you pay. No matter what father says.”

Ordinarily those words would have completely cowed Gingivere, but now they just sounded hollow. _If Martin’s father can stand up to mine, I can stand up to my sister_. So he didn’t back down, didn’t apologize, and instead just glared back with all the anger an eight-year-old could muster.

Tensions between the two were prevented from further escalation by the sound of light scraping from outside, accompanied by a sinister-sounding chuckle. The two froze in place. _The cave was opening._

In stepped a searat neither of them had ever seen before. Instantly, both Tsarmina and Gingivere knew he was one of the raiders.

“Well now, I’m guessing you two are the little children of old Greeneyes?” The searat gave a mocking bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, quick as you please, come with old Ripfang. It’s not safe for little ones like yourselves to be without an adult watching you right now, don’t you know there’s a battle.”

Her quarrel with her brother forgotten, Tsarmina stepped in front of him. “No.” She brought up her dagger. “Leave us be, rat. A sea vermin like you has no place ordering us around.”

Far from being afraid, the dagger only amused Ripfang. “You’re a brave one, aren’t you?” He brought his own knife up, one far larger than the one held by the little wildcat. “Why don’t you give that to me before you hurt yourself.”

“Never!”

“Very well, if you insist.” Ripfang lunged.

 

Outside, hidden from the sight of the vermin, Ashleg and Harklight watched the battering ram advance on the great doors of the mountain.

“Hell’s teeth.” Harklight was shaken. “Is there _nothing_ these monsters won’t do?”

“We have to free them!” One of the hares shouted.

Ashleg silenced them both with a look. “No. We were tasked with attacking the trebuchets, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“But they’re children!” A ferret from his own ranks protested. “We can’t let them die.”

“We may have to.”

Harklight stared at him in horror. “You’d let children get slaughtered? How could you be so blooming cruel?”

Ashleg looked back over at the ram, then shook his head. “I don’t like it, believe me, but for the greater good of both our homes we have to let what’s going to happen to them happen. If we charge out that’ll only get us killed even faster, and they’ll still be slaves to the cruelty of our enemies.” He stood up and looked over his fighters. “I know it hurts, but we have to focus on our mission. The safety of the mountain comes first. Move it – we’re leaving!”

Harklight gave one last look at the slaves, a look filled with regret, and then bade his own creatures to follow the Thousand-Eyes.

The trebuchet nearest them was lightly guarded, with only a pair of rats and a stoat to be cut down by the defenders. Harklight then took out his own knife and sheared away a bit of the rope around the counterweight. “Makes it harder to detect.” He explained to the confused others. “It looks like nothing, yes, but now that I’ve cut the rope the blasted thing’ll snap in a couple volleys! It’ll look like an accident.”

“Except for the dead vermin.” Ashleg snorted. “How do you figure we can cover that up?”

In the end they decided to just tie the bodies to the projectile and launch. Gruesome, maybe, but it disposed of the evidence.

Then it was on to the next trebuchet, which was more heavily defended. Harklight smiled, grabbed a rock, and took off with a bow. As the rest of them watched he dove behind a bush and chucked the stone at the vermin. Their ears all perked up and as one they turned towards the bush, and one of them began to ease his way towards it. Sensing Harklight’s plan, Ashleg motioned towards a few of his own creatures to get ready to charge.

With a quick _twang_ Harklight shot an arrow into the heart of the stoat advancing on him, and the other vermin cried out and readied their own swords. They moved towards the bushes, and as they did Ashleg noticed that the hares next to him were about to spring.

“EULA –”

Before they could charge, though, Ashleg’s creatures beat them out and made quick work of the vermin. Looking back at the irritated hares he put a finger to his lips.

“ _Quiet!_ ”

They repeated this trick for the next trebuchet, and this time the hares duly kept their mouths shut. Ashleg found himself relaxing.

“This is pretty easy, isn’t it?” He leaned against the ruined trebuchet and slapped it. “These things aren’t so tough, are they?”

Unfortunately this particular trebuchet had been made from some rather old wood, and as such it promptly collapsed in on itself with a great _crash_.

Immediately a large group of raiders appeared out of nowhere.

“Well well well, what do we have here!” One of them leered. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves some saboteurs!”

They all drew their weapons at once.

Harklight glared at Ashleg. “Brilliant move, that. Telling us to be quiet and then bringing down the whole bloody trebuchet and drawing thirty of the villains out on us!”  


	12. Combat Everywhere

_Oh, this is just WONDERFUL_.  

Blade in hand, Harklight sized up his opponents. There were thirty to their twenty, all surrounding them, and from the looks of it the scoundrels were better armed than either the hares or the Thousand-Eyes. It was going to be bloody.

“You know, it’s funny.” The leering weasel continued prattling on, apparently taking advantage of his numerical superiority to indulge his desire to gloat. “All this time, I was worried about some of you carrot-munchers pulling some sort of trick. But did they listen to me? No. No-one wanted to hear what good ol’ Bowfleg thought. But I’m clever, aye, so I got some of my mates and we…”

Harklight whispered to another hare as Bowfleg rambled on. “Any weak spots, old boy?”

The other hare gave a tiny nod. “I think so. One of the rats on the left looks like he has a weak paw, and the other was dragging his leg a bit.”

“Ace. That’s where we aim.” Harklight turned his attention back to Bowfleg, who continued his speech.

“So the way I see it, you lot are my ticket up! ‘Captain Bowfleg’, I reckon, don’t you? Assuming you come quietly of course. But I’m guessing you carrot munchers don’t intend to, although I would really appreciate it if you did.”

“Or,” Harklight smirked, “We could do this.”

The hare sprang into action, leaping forwards sword in hand towards his quarry. The rat’s grip on his spear, as predicted, was too weak to properly deflect the blow, and Harklight batted it out of the way before slashing the rat’s face clean off. A quick half-turn allowed him to overpower the lame rat and drive his sword down into the vermin’s throat. Before the others could react Harklight sprang back into the center, rejoining his allies.

Now it was his turn to gloat. “Crippled soldiers. _Honestly_. What kind of balley fool thinks that’s a good idea?”

A chorus of snickers floated up from both ranks. Bowfleg’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll regret doing that, hare.”

In response the defenders immediately formed a circle, weapons pointed outwards and leveled at their foes.

“CHARGE!” Bowfleg shouted. His soldiers rushed in, trying to press their foes together and overrun them. Ashleg’s spears jabbed outwards, blindingly fast, goring five vermin and scattering eight others to the side. Ashleg took himself the opportunity to dart out half a pace with his own knife and slash a ferret across the stomach. As the ferret collapsed Ashleg shoved his body onto a charging ferret, knocking him over. A hare seized the opportunity to stab the fallen raider with a stolen spear.

Still it was hard going; even after the death of seven raiders they were still outnumbered, and Bowfleg’s group managed to take four casualties of their own. Harklight had taken a wound in the shoulder and one of his best fighters was down on the ground struggling with a knife at his throat. Gripping his shoulder, Harklight found himself standing side-by-side with the pine marten.

“Hate to say it, but I’m afraid we can’t win like this. Unless something changes we’ll be cut down one-by-one, or near enough to blow the mission.”

Ashleg parried a spear thrust, kicking his opponent in the chest. The rat sputtered and would have died had his companion not yanked him out of the path of Ashleg’s return thrust. “Agreed. We need to take advantage of that hole you made.”

Harklight nodded as he thrust into a stoat’s leg. “But how do we get everyone’s attention without letting the blighters know what we’re up to?”

“I think we’re past that point, sad to say.”

“So what, just yell ‘oi, we’re moving out?’”

“In essence, yes. We don’t have room for subtlety right now.”

Harkilght sighed. “Fine, whatever you say.” Then, in a carrying voice, he addressed the hares and Thousand-Eyes alike. “OI! WE’RE CHARGING OUT! FOLLOW ME!” Ignoring the pain in his shoulder Harklight charged once more, Ashleg at his side.

“EULALIAAAAA!”

“MOSSSSFLOWEEEEER!”

The one-two-punch of hare and pine marten leveled a weasel and a rat, letting the two captains pass safely outside the circle. They immediately whirled and dispatched a stoat who had decided to leap out and follow them.

“Everyone, NOW!” Harklight shouted.

Spears in front and swords to the side the surviving defenders made for the breach, cutting vermin down left and right. Most of them made it, regrouping behind their captains.

“Well,” Ashleg panted, “we’re out of the circle. What now?” They were down to twelve fighters, while Bowfleg and his group still numbered fifteen. On top of that, at least half the hares and a third of the Thousand-Eyes carried some sort of deep wound, while most of the surviving vermin were at least slightly fresher. 

Harklight glanced around. It looked, interestingly, like one of the enemy camps seemed empty. “I say we regroup at those tents over there.”

“Is that safe?”

“Safer than here, I think.”

“Very well, then.” Ashleg gestured towards the survivors. Everyone, make for the tents over there! We’ll regroup and make our stand with a little more cover!”

 

_Boom_

_Boom_

The battering ram hammered away at Salamandastron’s great doors unmolested. Neither Verdauga nor Boar could bring themselves to give the orders to attack it, not when that meant slaughtering children.

Amber stared down, disgusted. “They’ll pay for this. I swear it. Even if it means we have to rip every corsair and bandit apart limb from limb.” She looked at the two commanders. “Any idea on how to do that?”

Boar shook his head, still too appalled to think.

Rence cleared his throat. “It seems to me that, much as we may hate it, we may have to kill them. Either that or let the bastards slam their way in and hope that we can contain them from there.”

“But they’re _children!_ ” Verdauga protested. “If we kill them we’re no better than Greypaw or Daskar.”

“What choice to we have? At least we can try and make it as painless as possible.”

“And how are we supposed to convince our creatures to fire on children?” Boar looked at his captain. “If we do that they’ll break before half of the slaves are even dead.”

“Then we’ll have to kill them all at once.” Verdauga looked paler and older than he’d ever looked before. “We’ll either have to drop a load of rocks on them…or use the oil.”

“No.” Boar shook his head. “That is out of the question. Even accepting that they need to die that’s too cruel.”

“It’s quick, though.”

“For us, maybe. Not for them.”

“I think,” Rence chimed in, “that that may be lord Greeneyes' point. If we drop the oil, it’s one movement and done, and with fewer creatures pulling the proverbial trigger at that.”

“But still…forcing children to burn to death.”

“Are there any other options?” Amber’s face was resigned.

Boar looked at his compatriots, then down at the battering ram, then over at the army behind it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Very well. I will give the order. Captain Lawrence,” he looked over at the hare, “Tell Lupin that I want her ready to release the oil in five minutes. No matter what she says, make it clear that it’s an order.”

“Aye.” Rence scampered off.

“What about afterwards?” Verdauga asked. “I doubt that they’ll give up the attack over a battering ram.”

Boar nodded. “Most likely, no.” He looked out at the battlefield. “And it seems as though something has gone wrong with our friends outside – there’s still too many trebuchets launching.” He turned to the wildcat. “How could are your soldiers at fighting in close-quarters? My hares aren’t specialized at that sort of combat.”

“The Thousand-Eyes? Generally they train to fight in the open field, but I suppose they could form a shield wall in here. It would probably be fairly hard for our foes to crack through.”

“Good. We had best ready them for that to happen. I don’t think the door will hold much longer even if we destroy the battering ram.”

Verdauga nodded and addressed Lady Amber. “Amber, find Skipper and Cludd. Tell them that plans have changed and I want them in the entrance hall as fast as we can. Tell Cludd that he is to ready a shield wall and that Skipper is to ready his javelin-throwers.

“Yes, my lord.” Amber ran off, leaving the two commanders alone.

Soon afterwards, which a great _whoosh_ the floodgates below them opened and dropped gallons of boiling oil on the battering ram. Even from their position above the carnage, Boar and Verdauga could feel the heat, smell the smoke and even hear the _hiss_ and splintering of the wood.

And the screams. The terrible screams as mice, hedgehogs, squirrels and otters were bathed in six-hundred-degree oil. Verdauga and Boar watched the sight, unable to tear their eyes away, and hoped that the poor children could at least find some measure of peace in the Dark Forest.

“ _Fuck._ ” Verdauga whispered. He’d been the one to propose they use the oil in the first place, yet the sight made him sick to his stomach. Was it because several of the dead were mice and squirrels, not so different from his son or his erstwhile ranger?

Whatever it was, it made him turn around and throw up.

Boar looked at him, not unkindly. “It pains me as well, Greeneyes. That it came to this is…cruel. Children should never have to die like this.”

“It’s not just that.” Verdauga rasped, still feeling sick. “When I think of those mice, all I can think of is…”

“That mouse you call your son?”

“Exactly.” Verdauga forced himself up, forced himself to look. He knew that in the days ahead he would dream about this constantly. “I’m sorry.” He said, to both Boar and to the dead below. “I’m so sorry about this.”

 

Away from the carnage, Amber ran up the mountain in pursuit of the soldiers Verdauga had sent up in his earlier panic. Finally, after a bit of searching she found the Skipper and Cludd in a side room.

“Is everything alright?” Skipper asked. “You look like you want to throw up.”

Amber shook her head. “You don’t want to know, Warthorn. You really don’t.”

“Then why are you here?” Cludd was impatient. “Get to the point.”

“There’s been a change in plans. We don’t think the gate is going to hold much longer. Cludd, Warthorn, get your creatures down to the entrance hall as soon as possible. Verdauga wants us to make a stand there, Thousand-Eyes in front in a shield wall and otter javelins behind.”

“In a hallway?” Skipper’s eyes narrowed. “That’s too tight. If we start throwing javelins we’re bound to hit someone.

“Do you have a better plan?” Silence. “If not, then get everyone downstairs as fast as you can. I’ll meet you down there.”

“Understood.”

_Boom_

_Boom_

Amber saw what Boar and Verdauga were talking about: even without the battering ram, even with the oil, it was clear that Greypaw and Daskar were about to break in. Thankfully, Cludd and Skipper were not too far behind with a good three-hundred Thousand-Eyes and some thirty otters. 

“Get in line!” Cludd yelled. “I want a shield wall thirty wide and ten deep!” As the Thousand-Eyes hastened into formation he gestured towards the otters. “Otters, start at the fifth row back! I want one of you for every five shields, with three to shoot each row and three to reload! We’ll soften them up when they enter and let the rest batter themselves against the wall!”

“Yes, sir!” Was the universal response.

The Skipper stepped up. “Those villains think they can take whatever they like! That, according to Lady Amber, they can throw the lives of our young ones away instead of risking their own! Well, that ends now! Now, we send the bastards down to the hellgates!” He raised his own javelin. “FOR MOSSFLOWER!”

“FOR MOSSFLOWER!”

The gates burst open. Greypaw himself led the fray, and the vermin flooded into the great hall.

 

 

Tsarmina was bleeding from five different wounds. Try as she might to fend off her opponent’s blows Ripfang completely outclassed her, and the searat knew it.

“Now haven’t you had enough fun, lass?” His tone was mocking, but she was too exhausted to stand up. “Like I said: drop that and come with me, now. I promise I won’t hurt you anymore if you do as I say.”

She glanced over at her brother. “No. You will _not_ lay a paw on either of us. Not while I live!”

Ripfang easily avoided her lunge and grabbed her by the neck. “That won’t be much longer if you keep this up, young lady.”

Tsarmina’s only response was to bite him. Ripfang howled in pain, swore, and then threw her against the wall. Tsarmina landed against it with a _thud_ and collapsed on the ground, unconscious. Rubbing his injured paw, Ripfang advanced on Gingivere.

“Now, I assume you’ll show more sense than your sister did?”

Terrified but resolved to go down swinging, Gingivere grabbed his sister’s knife. “No. You will _not_ take us!”

The searat rolled his eyes. “How old are you, nine? And you think you can stop me?” With a single kick Ripfang knocked the little wildcat over. He placed his foot on Gingivere’s chest. “Last chance, child. Come quietly, or you lose an eye.”

Before Gingivere could respond he heard a voice from the other side of the room.

“Let him _go!_ ”

Ripfang took his paw off Gingivere’s chest and whipped around to face his next opponent. When he saw him, he laughed a high, cruel laugh. “Another little one who thinks he can play hero, is that it? Run along now, before I gut you like a fish. This doesn’t concern you.”

“ _No._ ” A fire was burning in the little mouse’s eyes. “I won’t let you take my brother and sister away.” He raised a sword, arms trembling under the weight, but he held it firm. “I, Martin son of Luke the Warrior, challenge you, rat!”  


	13. The Tide Turns

Martin eyed his opponent. The rat was bigger than him, for sure, but Bane was even larger, and he’d still managed to give the fox a good fight back home. Martin was sure that he could take him. He kept his stolen sword at the ready, even though it was a _lot_ heavier than it looked.

Ripfang eyed the young mouse and snorted. “Brother and sister? _Them_? Don’t be ridiculous. Like I said: get out of here before I cut you open.”

“Martin, listen to him.” Gingivere was terrified. “Go get father or Boar. They’ll – they’ll help us somehow.”

Martin knew he was lying. If the rat managed to escape with his siblings, he knew that he’d never see them again. So, instead of doing the sensible thing and listening to his brother, Martin stood firm. Even though he was terrified. _It’s like the stories,_ he reminded himself, _it’s just like the stories. Good always wins_. So, like the heroes in the stories, Martin stood as tall as he could. “You’ll pay for what you said, rat. And what you did to my family.”

Ripfang just laughed. “Really? Getting a little full of yourself, aren’t you? Well, as I recall the lass talked much the same.” He gestured over to her inert body. “And look at her – slumped against the wall!” Then an evil grin spread across his face. “Well, if you want to play, I suppose I could spare a few moments for you, mouse.”

Ripfang spread into action. Martin barely had time to think _He’s fast!_ Before the rat swung his knife down at him. Martin just barely managed to raise his own weapon in time to stop it descending into his neck, and so managed to escape with just a cut on his shoulder. He leapt back, trying to ignore the pain, and kept his sword level. Then he tried to dart in, cut the rat’s leg, but his opponent was too fast. With a contemptuous sidestep Ripfang easily dodged to blow and proceeded to deal Martin a kick across the face. The little mouse was sent spinning.

“Let this be a lesson to you, mouse. Never bring a sword to a knife fight, especially against creatures as skilled as me.”

Panting now, Martin struggled to his feet. “I…I won’t give up!” He _had_ to protect them. _Had_ to protect the ones he loved. Just as his father had.

Ripfang didn’t even deign to respond, instead just walking up to the little mouse. “Well, you’re a bold little brat, aren’t you? It almost seems to be a waste to kill you.” The rat grabbed Martin by the neck and held him up to his face. “So how’s about this? How about you come as well? Come on – I’d let you be my own personal valet when you’re older. It’d be an easy life for you. At least, compared to other slaves.”

Martin fought to keep his fear from showing. In his hubris Ripfang had completely ignored the fact that his enemy was still holding his sword, so Martin reminded himself of that fact in order to keep calm.

“Well? What do you say, mousey?”

Martin jabbed downwards with the last of his strength. The blade sank right into Ripfang’s paw, pinning it to the floor. The rat yowled in pain and dropped his opponent, who scurried back as fast as he could. By the time he made it back to where Gingivere was sitting, he realized that he was completely out of breath and all his muscles were screaming at him. There was nothing left he could do.

With a grunt Ripfang yanked the sword out of his paw and held it opposite his knife. “You damned furball.” He growled. “I’ll make you _scream_ for that, boy!” He began limping towards the two. “I’ll flay you, yes I will. I’ll pull your tongue out, too. And maybe I’ll give you over to old Vilu – he likes little boys like you as I recall.” 

Gingivere and Martin could do nothing but hug and wait for the end.

Ripfang was just a few steps away from them when another interloper body-slammed him from the side and sent him flying.

“You think you can get them? Try me, corsair.” It was Timballisto, and in the commotion he’d managed to grab Tsarmina’s knife. “I imagine you’re tired of fighting children.” He leveled the blade with a grin. “I’ll give you a _much_ more interesting dance.”

Ripfang growled. “How many of you are there? Out of the way, mouse. I’m here for the children.”

“And _I’m_ here for your head. So you can see the conundrum.”

Then they were at it.

The two combatants circled one another, probing, every so often jabbing forwards but largely just holding back. Ripfang made the first leap for it, a quick jab aimed right at Timballisto’s neck. Timballisto blocked with his free arm and swung outwards, catching Ripfang in the ear. The rat grunted with pain and clamped a paw over the wound. “Not bad, mouse.”

“There’s more where that came from waiting for you, rat.” Now it was Timballisto’s turn to lunge. He darted outwards, aiming at Ripfang’s chest. It was an easy dodge, and Ripfang was easily able to turn it aside. He slashed forwards, aiming to cut the mouse’s face off. _Time to end this_.

Before he could, though, Timballisto jerked his arm and slammed it into Ripfang’s chest. The lunge had been a feint! The mouse followed up with a punch to the stomach that made the rat double over. Timballisto hunched over his opponent, knife to his neck.

“Yield.”

Ripfang’s only response was to spit. Timballisto responded with a casual flick that almost looked like an afterthought, chopping off half his whiskers.

“Aaaarrrgh!” Ripfang jammed both of his paws against the split ends. “Blasted mouse!”

“I’ll say it one more time: yield, rat.”

In agony, all Ripfang could do was nod. “Fine, I yield.”

“Alright, then.” With one final punch Timballisto knocked him out cold. Then, he rushed over to Martin and Gingivere.

“Are you two ok?”

“I’m fine.” Gingivere was still shaking. “But Tsarmina’s hurt badly.”

“I can see that. Your father will have to have a healer see to her after this is over.” He looked at Martin. “And you, Martin? How are you?”

Martin tried to stop himself from shaking. “I’ll be okay. That rat got me in the shoulder, and kicked me, but besides that I’m not hurt. Nothing like what I did to his paw, at least.”

Timballisto chuckled and ruffled the younger mouse’s fur. “I don’t know if you’re very brave or very stupid.”

“I was just trying to do what my blood father would have done!” Martin puffed himself up as much as he could manage. “If he could face a wildcat I can face a common raider!”

Timballisto just chuckled some more. “Don’t let Lord Verdauga hear you speaking like that. He’ll throw a fit.” The older mouse got to his feet. “But stay where you are, both of you. This battle’s not over yet.”

 

The shield wall was holding, but for how long no one could say. Five times now Greypaw had charged and five times he had been repulsed, but it was clear that the front line was getting tired. Normally it was policy to rotate them out and let the second line take over, but in quarters as tight as this that wasn’t feasible. So, instead it became a sort of relay: the Thousand-Eyes would dart up when they could, replacing the front lines piecemeal. It kept the line from faltering, at least, but it was clear that it wasn’t sustainable. All Greypaw would have to do would be get lucky and strike in _just_ the right spot, and he’d have an opening to break the line.

Amber wiped a bit of sweat off her brow. They had to do _something_ , and soon. Up until now she’d been partway back the lines firing where she could and helping time the javelin throws, and she’d noticed that as the battle went on the soldiers around her were getting progressively more and more haggard. They were getting down to the seventh row, she noticed.

“We can’t keep doing this.” She told Skipper. “I’m going to try and get to the front and see if there’s anything I can do up there. Are you going to be able to run things back here alright, Warthorn?”

“Don’t worry about me. Do what needs to be done.” Then he turned and shouted orders for the third and fourth row otters to shoot.

Amber weaved her way up to the front. It was obvious that one of the weasels was about to collapse, so she told him to get back and grabbed his shield.

Her presence was a surprise to the troops around her. “Lady Amber?” A rat gawked at her. “What are you doing up here?”

“Looking for another plan. If we keep going like this our wall’s going to break soon.”

“Really? What was your first clue?”

She ignored the barb. “What’s your name? And how long have you been up here?”

“Whegg. I’ve been here since the third charge.”

“Well, Whegg, you’ve been up here for a bit. Have you noticed anything we could use?”

Whegg nodded up at the left. “There looks to be some sort of hidden passageway. Perhaps our hare friends could make use of it, provided someone could get them down here before we’re all dead.”

Amber looked up herself. Sure enough, although the rock _did_ look mostly solid, there did appear to be some vague cracks that suggested a doorway. “Good to know. Boar might know the truth of it.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a sixth charge. Amber grunted with the effort as a massive fox slammed into her shield. She managed to stab him in the arm, driving him back, and then looked over at the other Thousand-Eyes: the line had held again, but it only barely. “We’d best move fast, then.”

“ _You’d_ best move fast then. I’m staying here with the rest of the men.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been up here long enough.”

Whegg looked at her. “What, and leave two holes in the line for the price of one? Now _go._ ”

Amber sighed, grit her teeth, and then tagged a stoat to replace her. The squirrel weaved her way through the lines, and with one last look at the battle ran back up to find the Badger Lord. _Whegg. I’ll have to remember him._ From what little she’d seen of him he seemed to be a rather noble sort, even if he did have a bit of a mouth.

She found Boar and Verdauga right where she’d left them, issuing halfhearted commands to their archers and staring at the remnants of the battering ram.

“Boar?” She needed to snap him out of it. “We have need of you.”

The badger looked at the squirrel as though he didn’t recognize her. “What? Oh. Lady Amber. What is it?”

“The lines are faring badly. The shield wall’s still holding, but they’re getting exhausted. I fear that another hard press from the vermin will break it.”

“And you think I can help?”

“One of the rats in the line noticed what looked like the door of a hidden passageway. Does one exist? We could use it?”

“A passageway?” Boar frowned. “Let me think…” He was silent for a moment, and then he clapped a paw on his forehead. “Of course! Blast, I’d forgotten!”

“There is one?”

“Yes. My father, Lord Brocktree, carved it after he took the mountain back from the wildcat Ungat Trunn.” Boar turned to Verdauga. “What are your thoughts on me taking the Long Patrol down through there? Will your remaining archers be able to keep our foes at bay?”

“Considering that their main thrust is through the gate, I feel that the number of archers we have up here is immaterial. I think we’re mostly on the battle’s periphery at the moment.” He smiled, oddly enough. “Honestly, the idea of old Ungatt being to thank for our salvation is kind of amusing. If he knew that his invasion would give us the means to preserve our own freedom, he’d be spinning in his grave.”

“You knew him?” Boar asked.

“My brother.” Verdauga waved his paw in dismissal. “But it makes no matter. I never liked him anyways.”

Amber coughed. “If we may get back to the matter at hand…”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Boar shook his head. “Let me round up the hares.”

 

“First, third, fifth ranks shoot! Second, fourth, sixth ranks reload!” Skipper realized that most of his otters were down to their last few javelins. After that they’d just be dead weight, but likely not for long: he figured that there was probably not a single creature left in their lines that had any strength left. They were at their breaking point, and the otter had no illusions as to whether Greypaw knew it or not. _Please, Amber._ He prayed. _Please have some scheme cooked up_.

The otter next to him frowned. “Do you hear something?”

“Me? Nothing I haven’t been hearing since this battle started.”

“No. It’s something different. There’s…something coming from the sides. Like a sort of scraping.”

Scraping? Skipper closed his eyes and listened. He didn’t hear anything. “Wait, no. I do.” It was faint, but there did seem to be _something_ going on. But what? “Well, whatever it is, let us hope that it’s friendly.”

Suddenly, to the left of the front lines the cave wall burst as though a giant stone door had just been opened. The air suddenly sounded with a great cry of “EEEEEEUUUUUUUULAAAAAAALIAAAAAAAAAA!” As the Long Patrol streamed out and smashed into Greypaw’s lines. Even from as far back as he was Skipper had the sweet sensation of seeing Greypaw’s jaw drop as his lines folded under the assault. The sight filled him with glee, and he wasn’t the only one: filled with fresh energy the Thousand-Eye army surged forwards, pinning vermin left and right against their spears and driving the invaders back. Finally, after a few minutes of slaughter the otter heard the greatest sound he had heard all day.

“Everyone! Fall back! FALL BACK!”


	14. Battle's End

Surprisingly enough making for the tents had apparently been a strategically sound maneuver – in the excitement to break into Salamandastron there wasn’t a single soul left in the vermin camp, allowing the exhausted hares and Thousand-Eyes some breathing room. Bowfleg had also hung back as they charged to organize his own forces as well as tend to the wounded, which also gave them a few extra minutes to regroup.

They had formed up just outside the dining tent, dragging out benches and tables to form a rudimentary barricade. From there, hopefully, they could stall out long enough for their opponent to tire and leave. That, or for enemy reinforcements to arrive and slaughter them. It was a waiting game, plain and simple, and in the meantime Ashleg and Harklight patched up who they could and prepped for the last stand.

The waiting dragged on far longer than they would have expected, and Harklight was confused: why hadn’t the blighters shown themselves? What was Bowfleg waiting for? He turned to Ashleg. “Is it just me, or is our enemy taking his sweet time in getting to the next attack?”

Ashleg peeped out and looked in the direction they had run from. There wasn’t a vermin in sight. “Well _that’s_ strange. Any clue why?”

“Dashed if I know. Maybe they’re plotting something?”

“But what?”

Before the two could give any further thought one of the hares cried out. “Cap’in Harklight! There’s something going on at the mountain!”

Harklight looked over, and to his shock saw that the entire front of the mountain seemed to be rushing downwards in a great, black curtain. “What in the _gates of hell_ is that?” He stared it seemed horribly familiar…

His eyes widened. “No. No. No. They couldn’t have.”

“What?” Ashleg wondered what was making the hare white as a sheet.

“Remember that battering ram we saw, old chap?”

“Of course.”

“It seems that someone back home decided to drop a load of oil on it.” Harklight shook. “It seems that we’re now all a bunch of bloody child murderers.” He kicked the barricade and leapt onto the barricade. “BOWFLEG! WHERE ARE YOU! I WISH TO PAY YOU BLASTED VERMIN BACK IN KIND!”

There was no reply but the echoes of his outcry over the sands.

Then, suddenly, he heard a tiny voice.

“ _Help! Help us! Save us! They’re keeping us prisoner!_ ”

All the heads in the barricade whipped towards the sound. “ _Where are you?_ ” Harklight shouted back.

“ _In a wooden stockade! They’re keeping us here!_ ”

“Does anyone see what they’re talking about?” Ashleg asked.

A rat nodded back. “Aye, there looks to be some kind of big cage to the west of here. I can just about make out the top!”

Harklight perched himself on top of the barricade to get a better look. “Yep, that’d be it. By Jove – there looks to be a few hundred in there!”

“Any sign of vermin?”

“None, dontcha know!” Harklight laughed. “Ha! This day’s finally turning around. _Have no fear! The Long Patrol and the Thousand-Eye army are here to rescue you!_ ” Then, before consulting with anyone else or even bothering to give orders, Harklight leapt down from the barricade and took off shouting “come on, all! We’ve slaves to free!”

“Wait!” Ashleg shouted after him. “This is too easy! I fear it’s a trap!” Everyone ignored him, taking off after the Long Patrol captain either out of similar excitement or out of a desire to stop him and the others before they got themselves killed. Ashleg groaned, facepalmed, and took off after them as fast as his peg leg would allow. _Why did I volunteer for this, again? I have a bloody stick where my leg should be, for heaven’s sake._

Harklight ignored the searing pain in his arm. Looking behind him, he saw that all the defenders were following in his wake. “Almost there, chaps!” He shouted. “We’re about to free the poor creatures!” So excited was he to liberate the slaves, particularly after his leaders just committed mass infanticide, that he nearly slammed into the gate. Once he reached it he pulled out his knife and began jiggling the lock. “Have no fear,” he smiled at a petrified vole inside the stockade, “we’re friends. We’re here to get you to –”

The spear took him in the neck. Harklight immediately collapsed, not comprehending what had just happened, and feebly grabbed at the weapon now sticking out of his throat. He felt himself sinking into the murky blackness, felt the Dark Forest calling, but before he did he heard a laugh. _Bowfleg!_ He thought in his last moments. _But…I…_ Then Captain Harklight of the Long Patrol collapsed onto the sand, his mission to free the slaves unfinished.

All the remaining defenders immediately skidded to a stop, staring in horror at both the dead hare and at the group of vermin now appearing from around tents or behind crates. Ashleg, who had caught up and worked his way to the front of their ragged band, grabbed his spear. “Bowfleg. I knew it was good to be true.”

The stoat’s voice was mocking. “Pity your carrot-munching friend didn’t. You led us on a merry dance and an even more merry chase, but in the end the tables seem to have turned, haven’t they now?”  Bowfleg raised his own spear. “Time to die, pine marten.”

The battered remnants of the two groups fell on each other, shouting their battle cries but too few and too tired to form into any sort of disciplined formation. As such, it was less a resumption of their battle and more a disorganized brawl. Ashleg himself lunged at a nearby weasel, too exhausted to make a go at the much less-winded Bowfleg, and the two wrestled over their spear. After a few moments of tussling Ashleg managed to sink his spear into the weasel’s chest, but the downward motion of the body snapped his spear in half. The pine marten managed to hank the bladed half out and forced himself back to his feet, exhausted but unwilling to surrender. He lurched over to the nearest rat and sunk the impromptu knife into his neck.

Before he could pull it out, however, Ashleg felt a strong grip on his neck. Bowfleg pulled him away from the rat’s corpse and threw him against the gate of the stockade.

“Well now,” he smirked at the beaten pine marten. “Any last words?”

“Go to hell, you flea-bitten pirate.” Ashleg wanted to fight back, he really did, but there was nothing he could do. There were no weapons, no tricks up his sleeve, nothing to save him…

Or was there?

Ashleg rolled over, hoping to look his killer straight in the eye, but as he did he caught a brief glimpse of his peg leg. Then, as if on instinct and before Bowfleg knew what was happening, he grabbed it and at the last possible second smacked the stoat clear across the face. Before he could recover, a hare dived out of nowhere and tackled Bowfleg to the ground.

As Ashleg sat there, panting, he heard a voice from behind him. It was the vole. “ _Help us._ ” She whispered at him.

Ashleg looked at her, nodded, and with what little strength he had left slammed his leg against the half-broken lock. Both the leg and the lock shattered on impact, and Ashleg barely had time to roll out of the way as the gate swung open and at least a hundred very abused and very pissed-off slaves charged out.

The last remaining defenders had the good sense to break off and leg it as fast as their weary legs could take them, which could not be said for most of Bowfleg’s remnant. The result was both quick and extremely gory: the slaves fell on their abusers with a savage fury, beating them with whatever they could get their hands on and mutilating the corpses for good measure. One squirrel, Ashleg noted, managed to single-handedly twist a rat’s head off its shoulders. _Damn_ , was all he could think, _are all squirrelmaidens warriors?_

Once the mass lynching came to an end the seven remaining hares and Thousand-Eyes limped back to the carnage, gaping. Ashleg propped himself up on a barrel and, supported by an otter, addressed them.

“Well, it appears that somehow we have emerged the victors.” He surveyed the dead: Bowfleg was unfortunately not among them, but he seemed to be the only one. “Still, we are too few and too weak a force to complete our original mission. We had best lay low until we can recover enough strength to get back to Salamandastron. Assuming that our enemies haven’t taken it by then, of course.”

A chorus of weakened “ayes” was the response from the survivors. After he acknowledged it Ashleg turned to the slaves. “You are free to come with us. Although we may not be able to protect you as well as we would like, if we can get back to the mountain you will know both freedom and true protection.”

Then, the tired band of freed slaves and ragged defenders made for the treeline. It was time to rest.

 

The Long Patrol had formed up just inside the gates of the mountain with Boar at the head, mercifully giving the Thousand-Eyes some time to rest. Greypaw faced him from opposite the battlefield, having more-or-less reformed his lines after the hares had shattered them. Boar assessed the odds: while it was true that his hares were more or less still raring to go and the space between him and Greypaw was still covered in oil and thus not the best to maneuver in, the fact remained that many of the vermin were better armed than his own troops, and the Thousand-Eyes were too exhausted after the earlier charge to take a role in the battle. Thus it appeared that Greypaw held the advantage, and by the look on his face Boar wagered that he knew it as well.

Boar thus decided to eschew continuing pitched battle in favor of a different tack. “Greypaw!” He called out to his opponent.

“What, you old badger? I doubt that you’ve decided to surrender on such a dramatic note.”

“I have a proposition for you. there has been enough bloodshed for today, and I would end this as peacefully as possible.”

“How so?”

“One-on-one combat. Just you, and me. If you win, the mountain is yours. You will enter unmolested as the glorious conqueror of Salamandastron, the warrior who defeated a badger in the prime of life. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like you’re attempting to play on my ego, badger. To be honest I’m almost insulted that you would consider it.” Greypaw looked back at his army. “Still, I imagine that my creatures would like me to take up the offer in the interest of their own lives.” He sighed. “Fine. What are you terms of combat?”

“We may each use whatever weapon we see fit. Battle will not end until one of us is dead.”

“Aye. I accept those terms.” Greypaw stepped out of his line. He gestured at a rat. “Darktail, fetch my mace.”

Boar similarly gestured back to Rence. “My sword, please.”

“Aye, my lord.” Was the answer to both of them.

Weapons in hand the two champions strode forwards, meeting in a dry patch about fifteen yards across. They tapped the edges of their weapons together. “May the best fighter win.” Even when fighting a battle such as this, Boar felt the need to adhere to the courtesies. Then, the two combatants stepped back seven yards each, got a firm grip on their weapon, and charged in.

Greypaw was the first to strike, driving his mace forwards to Boar’s chest. The badger parried and thrust his greatsword at Greypaw’s arm, driving home even as he dove out of the way. The weasel grunted as the sword glanced against his shoulder, cutting it, and only his quick reflexes saved the weasel from losing right then and there. Boar moved on the offensive now, pressuring his opponent back with a series of savage cuts aimed at his head. After a brief exchange Greypaw was driven back to the very edge of the field, one foot barely forwards of the oil, and it looked as though Boar was about to bring the fight to a conclusion when he made his mistake. The badger overextended and over-telegraphed the last cut, allowing Greypaw to duck out of the way. Boar was left completely off-balance and seeing this Greypaw swung the mace with all his might at his kneecap.

With a sickening _crunch_ the mace shattered Boar’s knee, sending the badger toppling to the ground as he roared out in pain. He tried to perch on his good leg and return the favor with a swing at Greypaw’s chest, but the weasel managed to dodge that as well and upbraid the badger across the jaw. The impact forced Boar reeling, and with one leg out of commission he was unable to get his balance. Another strike to the jaw forced him onto his back. Greypaw brought the mace down on his opponent’s chest plate, shattering both it and a few ribs. Then, withdrawing, he leveled the mace against the fallen badger. “You fought well, Boar, I’ll give you that. Any last words?”

On the ground, Boar struggled to speak. That last attack had shattered his chest, leaving him coughing up blood. He was in so much pain that death almost seemed a mercy. In fact, even as he lay prone on the ground Boar realized that his vision was beginning to cloud. _So this is it_ , he thought, _I’ve failed_. For some reason he thought of his daughter, Bella, back in Mossflower, and of his father, waiting for him in the Dark Forest. And then his vision was back, and the pain was gone, but something was still off: it almost seemed like the world was getting…red. And even as he lay there, Boar realized that he was being overcome with a singular desire: to kill his opponent as bloodily and painfully as possible.

As if rising up was no more difficult than getting out of bed Boar got to his feet. Save for the blood trickling from his chest and knee and a slight limp from the latter, it was as though Greypaw hadn’t even hit him. Boar looked over at his opponent, who had returned the mace to a fighting position, and roared. Then, not even bothering to pick up his sword, the badger launched forwards. Greypaw barely had time to react before the massive badger was on top of him, and although the weasel smashed his mace into Boar’s chest once more it made no difference. It almost seemed to make him _angrier_ , and so Greypaw changed tactics. A desperate dive took him out of the path of his enemy, at least for the second, but before he could spin back around and prepare to ward off the next attack Greypaw realized that someone was holding his tail. He was suddenly yanked off his feet and found himself face-to-face with a very angry and very bloodthirsty badger.

Desperately he tried to swing his mace, but Boar almost seemed to anticipate that and grabbed it like it was nothing. Oblivious to the blood now pouring from his hand the badger clenched hard on the mace and _crumpled it_. Greypaw couldn’t even react to this shock before Boar slammed him against the ground.

Again and again the weasel was bashed against the ground, until he was seeing stars and he was sure that every bone in his body was broken. He realized then that, somehow, Boar had turned the tables. He was about to die. The thought terrified him. _I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die! I don’t want to –_

Boar lifted the shattered weasel one last time, growled at him, and then put his maimed paw around his chest. Boar gave a mighty twist with his arms as he pulled apart, and Greypaw’s body tore in half in front of his horrified army. The badger roared one more time, turned, and threw the two halves of the corpse into the lines of the raiders. Then, saying the first words he’d said since the battle began, he addressed his petrified audience.

“WHO ELSE WISHES TO CHALLENGE BOAR THE FIGHTER!?”

To the last each and every raider looked at one another before turning and running for it, abandoning the battle. Boar watched them leave, coming back to his senses, and gazed up at the sky. Then he collapsed on the ground, finally exhausted from his ordeal.


	15. Time for Healing

“Boar! BOAR!” Having left his post just after the initial rout, Verdauga had managed to reach the assembled armies just in time to witness Boar’s spectacular victory and his subsequent collapse. The Wildcat then raced as fast as he could to the badger’s side and then bent down. Gently, he placed a paw on Boar’s neck. It was faint, but he could hear a heartbeat. _Thank the heavens above_.

“I need help!” He shouted back at the defenders. “We need to get him medical attention, _now_!”

Within a heartbeat Rence was beside the badger as well, along with a dozen hares and a few woodlanders trailing close behind. Rence studied his lord, his expression grim. “Boar’s not going to make it out of this easily, I’m afraid. It’s a bleeding miracle he’s still alive.”

“That bad?” Verdauga asked.

“Aye. From the look of it that mace did in half Boar’s ribcage, at least. He’s lucky that it didn’t puncture a lung.” Rence gestured towards his hares. “Right, now the first order of business – we need to make a stretcher. Buffheart, Quickear, go back to the Thousand-Eyes and get their shields. Worthington, fetch me the rope from that trebuchet. It won’t be much, but it’ll have to do.” Rence looked at Verdauga. “Lord Greeneyes, help me turn Boar on his side.”

“Why? What if we hurt him even further?”

“If we leave him like he’ll drown in his own blood, so it’s what we have to do.”

Verdauga nodded, and very gingerly the two lifted the badger up. Grunting from exertion they managed to turn him ninety degrees. Then, when the hares came back with the shields and the rope, an otter lashed them together into a rudimentary stretcher.

“Alright, steady now.” Rence ordered. “On three, heave him up. One, two, THREE!”

Verdauga, Rence and Buffheart lifted Boar up while the rest got into position below the stretcher, and finally the badger was on his way back to Salamandastron for some actual medical care.

It was then that Verdauga realized that everyone was looking at him.

“Should we pursue the vermin?” Skipper asked him.

Verdauga shook his head. “No. We’ve won the day, killed one of their commanders and completely routed them. Now we must tend to our own.” He looked back at the direction of the retreating horde, thought better of what he had just said, and spoke again. “Actually, if anybeast is still fresh, particularly the hares, it may be best if we harry them a bit more as they retreat in order to lessen the chances of them reorganizing.” He turned to the Long Patrol. “Captain Lawrence, if you’re up to it I leave that to you.”

“Yes, milord.”

“Do you want us to go with him?” Skipper asked.

“If we’ve enough fresh men, feel free. Now, if you excuse me, I need to make sure my children are alright.”

 

Verdauga ran up Salamandastron with more energy than he would have imagined he had, all the while trying to convince himself that his children were alright, that their victory had been complete, that everything was going to be fine…

He arrived outside their hiding place and his heart sank. He could see bloodstains on the cavern wall and Blacktooth was nowhere to be found, and the cave itself was partially open. _No. Please, no. Mina, please let them be alright_. Verdauga drew his sword and pushed the cave the rest of the way open. He braced himself, expecting to see the worst, but instead he saw Timballisto standing at the ready while Gingivere talked quietly with his sister and Martin sat opposite a captured rat.

Timballisto immediately dropped his stance. “My lord! I take it the battle’s ours? Your children are safe, and as you can see we managed to take a prisoner. I caught him trying to capture your little ones.”

Verdauga just barely managed to choke out a “thank you” before grabbing his children and sweeping them into a massive hug. Then all four of them were sobbing, whether from fear or relief or something else none of them knew, but for one shining moment all the emotions of the battle were gone, replaced with some sort of peace. The Greeneyes family was whole, and safe, and mostly unscathed.

The four were silent for some time, leaving Timballisto to awkwardly take over the watch on Ripfang and make sure the rat stayed put. Finally, Verdauga broke off the hug.

“I’m sorry. All of you, I’m _so sorry_. I was a fool to bring you here.”

“Are they all gone now, father?” Gingivere’s voice was still quivering. “Are we safe?”

“Yes. Boar defeated one of their leaders and their army broke. Skipper and the Long Patrol are chasing them away as we speak.” He looked over at Timballisto. “I see that you fought your own battle here. What happened?”

Gingivere took a deep breath before explaining what had happened, voice shaking all the while. He told of how Tsarmina and Martin had bravely held him off long enough for Timballisto to arrive, how even though they were both completely outmatched they had refused to surrender.

Verdauga looked at both of them. “You two worked together? Truly?”

“Well, not exactly…” Martin looked down at his paws. “I’d run off before Ripfang arrived, because, uh, I wanted to see the battle for myself.” Tsarmina did a quick double-take at that – why was he lying for her? “By the time I thought better of it and came back Tsarmina was already down.” Now _his_ voice was shaking. “She _told_ me not to go, but I didn’t listen.”

“We’ll talk about it later. For now, I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“I’m sorry I failed you, father.” Tsarmina’s voice was still thick from her unconsciousness.

Verdauga gave her another hug. “You didn’t fail me. You did wonderfully, all of you, despite your youth.”

“Lord Verdauga?” Timballisto interjected, mostly to break the awkward situation he found himself in. “What do you want me to do with the prisoner.”

“Timballisto? I’d forgotten you were there.” Verdauga surveyed Ripfang, who was bound and gagged at the mouse’s feet. “Uh…Take him downstairs and turn him over to Cludd for questioning. And tell him to take his sweet time getting the answers, too.” The wildcat then got to his feet and beckoned to his children. “Come. We’d best get all of you down to the infirmary. I want to get you looked at.” He placed his arm around his daughter, who was having trouble walking. “Especially you, Tsarmina.”

 

When they got to the infirmary all four of them instantly came to a stop. The room stank beyond anything they’d ever smelled before because of all the wounded, and from the massive badger sitting in the back Verdauga was pretty sure he could smell rotting flesh. Rence stood over him, apparently having delegated the pursuit to someone else, and was shouting orders. When he realized the wildcat was there he nodded but didn’t turn to greet him.

“I take it all your children survived alright?”

“Mostly, yes. But, if there’s anyone you can spare, I would like them to take a look at Tsarmina. From what her brothers said it seems she took a nasty hit against the wall.”

“Understood. I’ll have Hazelford examine her. And how are your sons?”

“Hurt, but I can bandage them myself if you don’t have any creature to spare.”

“I appreciate it. If you don’t mind, I’d like to focus everything on Boar. The poor fellow’s running a high risk of blood poisoning, so I need everyone focused on him.”

“I understand.” Verdauga looked at the badger and shook his head. “Be strong, Boar.”

A hare approached Tsarmina. “Milady? I’m Hazelford. If you could follow me I’d like to take a look at your head.”

Tsarmina bristled somewhat at the thought of being examined by a hare, but she complied all the same. Once Hazelford led him away Verdauga grabbed a roll of bandages and knelt in front of his sons. Gently he grabbed Martin’s shoulder and began to wrap it up.

“Is Boar going to die?” Martin was staring at the badger, transfixed.

Verdauga sighed. “He may well, if Captain Lawrence is unable to save him. At the moment, all we can do is hope for a miracle.” After he finished wrapping Martin’s shoulder he turned to his other son. “Gingivere? Is there anywhere you want me to bandage?”

Gingivere shook his head. “I’m fine. That rat kicked me, but that’s it.” Still, Verdauga realized that he looked oddly despondent for some reason, and also seemed strangely focused on something else. “Actually, father, can I talk to you in private? There’s something I need to tell you.”

Verdauga frowned. “Will you be able to manage by yourself for a few moments, Martin?”

“Yes, father.”

Once they were alone, Gingivere turned to his father, biting his lip. Not wanting to risk his bravery failing him he dove right into what he had to say. “I’m worried about my sister.”

“She’ll be fine, son. The hare Hazelford’s seeing to that, remember?”

Gingivere shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s…” He trailed off, trying to think of the best way to say what he needed to. “I think she’s becoming a monster.”

“You shouldn’t talk about your sister that way –”

“She is! Before that rat came in, she – she said things.”

“What sort of things?”

“She said that Martin was poisoning me against her, and that if the searats didn’t kill him she would, and – and I _slapped_ her because she’s always going on about how Martin’s not our family and she really didn’t seem to care at all if he died, and then she – she came at me with a knife! Well, not _at me_ , at me, but she said that if I ever hit her again she’d ‘make me pay’!”

Verdauga felt like he’d been hit in the stomach. _No. This can’t be true._ Could she really have sunk so low, not only bullying her brothers but _threatening_ them? Had it been anyone else he wouldn’t have believed it. But for Gingivere, the best-behaved of all his children, to speak of it... He wasn’t the type to make this up. He just wasn’t.

He suddenly realized that Gingivere was staring at him, expecting a response, but he was completely lost for words. “Thank you for telling me this.” Was all he could manage before he ducked back into the infirmary to try and find his daughter.

 

Back in the main room, Martin was trying to ignore the burning pain in his shoulder when Boar moaned.

“Lord Brocktree…Father…I…” Before he could say anything else the badger coughed some more, blood still trickling from his mouth.”

Rence rushed over to him. “Easy, Boar. You’re hurt badly.” Gently the hare helped the great badger into a sitting position. “Is there anything you require of me?”

Boar looked at him as though from a distance. “Rence…I take it that…that we won.”

“Aye, Boar. The blighters fled as soon as you did old Greypaw in.”

“Good, good…and…what of Verdauga’s children?”

“Safe, all three of them.” Rence gestured over to Martin. “His mouse is still here.”

Martin stood up straight as he could. “Is there anything you require of me, uh, my lord?” He wasn’t quite sure what to say, so copying Rence seemed to be a good idea.

“Find…your father. I need to speak…need to tell…that I don’t begrudge him…” Boar lay back on his pillow, asleep once more.

“What’s he talking about?” Martin asked.

“That’s between him and your father. I won’t trouble you the details. Now go, please find him.”

 

Martin returned a few minutes later with his father and brother in tow, just in time for Boar to wake up again. Verdauga knelt in front of him. “You wished to speak with me?”

Boar nodded. “Yes. I wished to tell you that I don’t hold a grudge for…for the oil.” The Badger shook his head, clearing it. “You did what needed to be done.”

“Your forgiveness is more than I deserve. It’s _you_ that’s the hero of the day, not me.”

Boar gave a weak smile. “ _Hero…_ that’s more than _I_ deserve.” He coughed again, but thankfully this time there wasn’t any blood. “Still, I suppose that it’s something my Bella can tell the little ones she cares for, that her father’s a hero.”

Verdauga gave a little start; in all the commotion he’d completely forgotten the cartful she’d given him. “Speaking of your daughter, I have some letters from her and Barkstripe.”

“Oh? I’d like to see them.”

“Of course.” Verdauga turned to a hare. “Down in the cellars, there should be a small oaken cart among the supplies my army brought here. Bring as many of the contents up here as you can carry.”

“Thank you, Verdauga. Now go, be with your children and your creatures. You shouldn’t have to spend _all_ your time at an old badger’s bedtable. And besides,” Boar smiled at him, “I’m sure the lord of Mossflower has plenty work of his own he needs to be doing.”

Verdauga nodded, returned the smile, and turned to his sons. “Gingivere, Martin, like Boar said – come. We have things to do.” _Like speaking with Tsarmina, for starters_.


	16. Peaceful Afternoon

Finally, after three weeks they were ready to go home, and as much as he’d looked forwards to seeing the mountain before the trip began Martin had to admit that he was finally sick of the place. Father and Boar had been concerned that even though the vermin army had broken and fled that they might try and reform, so the Thousand-Eyes had stayed on-hand for a while to repair the defenses and keep vigil for another attack. Everyone had been too busy to bother with Martin or his siblings, even Boar, who despite being bedridden the entire time managed to go through an entire mountain of paperwork every day. Tsarmina was also being even worse than usual, their brief in-battle rapprochement forgotten after word got out that she’d threatened to kill her brother (which was news to Martin, despite what Tsarmina had thought when she’d tried to hit him after accusing him of snitching to their father), replaced with constant, vaguely murderous, grumbles and the occasional thrown plate.

So, it was because of this extreme boredom that Martin found himself wandering down to the basement. For the past three weeks it had been home to several hundred slaves freed from the vermin camp as there was nowhere else to put them, and for the most part the traumatized freedbeasts were content to stay there. As such, Martin hadn’t really seen any of them since they’d first marched into Salamandastron, although Gingivere had taken it upon himself to help them recover as best he could, and after three weeks the mouse’s curiosity was overwhelming him. Particularly since, according to old Ashleg, there was a squirrel strong enough to wrench a rat’s skull from the body. That he _had_ to find out more about.

Martin ran into his brother outside the basement doors. Gingivere was busy washing a couple rags, but when he caught sight of Martin he frowned.

“Is everything alright?”

Martin stared at the pile of rags. “Why are you washing towels? Is father mad at you or something?”

Gingivere shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I? It needs to be done and everyone else is busy.”

“But isn’t it a little, you know, _beneath_ us?”

“You sound like Tsarmina.”

“I do _not!_ ”

“Yeah, you do. What are you doing down here, anyways?”

“I wanted to know if you could introduce me to the creatures in there.” Martin leaned over. “Ashleg said that there’s someone who ripped of a vermin’s skull! I have to meet them!”

“You mean Ranguvar? Why would you want to meet someone as violent as her?”

“Because they’re amazing! Come on, Gingivere. _Please?_ ”

Gingivere mulled it over “Fine, but only if you promise to help me out down here.”

“Deal.”

Gingivere led his brother through the impromptu refugee camp. As they walked Martin instantly felt guilty; everywhere he looked he saw one emaciated creature after another, some with whip scars across their backs and some with amputated limbs, and almost all of them had an incredibly vacant expression on their faces. _They’re all like this? While I’ve just been wandering around bored and missing the action?_ Suddenly, his desire to meet this mysterious Ranguvar felt naïve. _Everyone here’s a victim of vermin cruelty, not something for me to gawk at_. “We really are lucky, aren’t we?” He asked as they walked, “That we don’t ever have to worry about this sort of thing?”

“That’s why I try and help a bit.” Gingivere stopped walking and gestured to a black squirrel sitting in the corner. “Well, that’s Ranguvar.” When the squirrel raised her head and nodded, Martin introduced himself.

“Ms. Ranguvar? I’m Martin Greeneyes.” Again, Martin felt like his desire to know more about her battle prowess was kind of stupid. “I, uh, wanted to know about, uh…”

“About the thing with the rat? You and everyone else.”

“Well, no – I mean, I _did_ , but –”

Unexpectedly, she smiled. And it wasn’t a half-smile or fake one, but a grin that reminded Martin eerily of his sister when she had some evil scheme cooking up in her head.

“No matter. I’ll tell the story gladly.” The grin grew even larger. “The villain had it coming, I assure you. Oh, how he loved whipping us and lording his position over us. Once or twice he even took a maiden aside and had his way with them. So, when I got the chance I grabbed him, and with a quick _snap_ ” – she made a jerking motion with her arms – “twisted his vile head off. Think like when you pick a sunflower, but a little harder.”

Both Martin and Gingivere’s jaws dropped. The casualness with which she described the action was, frankly, a little disturbing. Martin looked at her neck, imagining someone twisting it off, and noticed a little necklace with a pair of teeth at the end. Noticing him studying it, Ranguvar explained where she’d gotten it.

“It’s not from the rat, if you’re curious. I got this from a much bigger prize-Vilu Daskar himself. I swore to kill him, you see, after he killed my family, and as luck would have it the tide of battle swept him nicely into my paws.” She made a slicing motion across her necks. “One flick of a dagger later he was gone, and I decided that his teeth would make a nice souvenir.” She paused for a moment, lost in thought. “Say, you two, I have a question. Your father wouldn’t perchance be in need of another warrior, would he? I’d like to see this country of his, and besides, I don’t think I could spend another moment more near the ocean than I could bear.”

“Why not?”

“Too many memories, little cat.”

Martin and Gingivere looked at each other. Did they _really_ want someone this bloodthirsty in Kotir? They made a quick promise to ask lord Verdauga about the subject, and then the two excused themselves from the conversation and went back outside. Gingivere plopped a load of dirty rags at his brother’s feet, and the two began washing them. After a few minutes of silence Martin spoke.

“I’m sorry about all this, Gingivere. I shouldn’t have made us come along. I was being stupid.”

“But I _wanted_ to!”

“Only because I filled your head with stories and made it sound like it was going to be a big adventure. We could have died!” Martin realized he was sniffling and rubbed his eyes. _Warriors don’t cry_ , he reminded himself. “It’s all my fault.”

“Well, if you’re really feeling guilty about it, how about you do all the rest of these for me?”

The only response Gingivere got was a wet rag to the face.

 

Upstairs, as they had most afternoons, the two lords sat and discussed matters related to the defense of the mountain.

“I see little need for you to stay here any longer, Verdauga. It’s already been three weeks, and I don’t think that we’ll be seeing any more of our foes. Particularly since both of their leaders are dead.”

“But is it really wise, Boar, for us to leave while you’re still in this state? You can’t even get out of bed.”

The badger sighed. “My friend, if you stay here until I’m at peak strength, you’ll be waiting the rest of my life.”

“What are you saying?”

“What I’m saying is that the damage from Greypaw’s attack is never going to heal completely. Captain Lawrence fears that my left knee won’t ever heal properly, and I’m inclined to believe him.” He coughed. “Not to mention the beating my chest took. No, Verdauga, your place is back in Mossflower. The defenses are all fixed, are they not?”

“They are. We just finished the new door last night.”

“Excellent. You see, we will be safe.”

Verdauga shook his head. “But the Long Patrol’s still operating at what? Three-quarters strength?”

“The Long Patrol of my father numbered fewer in its prime.” Boar lurched up and, wincing, put a paw on the wildcat’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine.”

Verdauga saw that there was no arguing with the badger and gave up. “Fine. We’ll be out of your fur in a couple days, I suppose. Is there any message you want me to give Bella?”

Boar pointed to a large envelope lying on his bedside table. “Could you give her that letter? And tell her that I enjoyed hearing from her; I hope that we can be in contact more.” Suddenly a thought struck. “Say – how many birds live in Mossflower?”

“A fair few, mostly robins and falcons and the like. Why?”

“Well, I was thinking that they could probably get messages between Kotir and Salamandastron a great deal faster than we could on foot. Perhaps we could set up a messaging organization.”

Verdauga mulled it over. “Not a bad idea.” He stood up. “I’ll think about it. In the meantime I should probably find my children and tell them that we’re leaving soon.”

Martin and Gingivere were about halfway through their piles when their father finally tracked them down. He looked at them with a raised eyebrow. “Dare I ask?”

“We just wanted to help out a little, since we felt guilty that we were just sitting around while all those poor creatures are trying to heal.”

The wildcat smiled at his children. “I see. Both of you, you’re growing into fine young men. But, I hope that you aren’t too attached to your newfound…duties, because in the next few days we’ll be leaving.”

Both of them grinned back at their father. “Finally!”

Verdauga excused himself and began leaving, but before he could get far he felt a little tug on his shirt. He looked down and saw Gingivere had come up to him.

“Before we forget, father, there’s something that we were asked to ask you?”

“And what would that be?”

“You know that squirrelmaid everyone’s talking about? The one that tore a rat’s head clean off? She wants to come with us back to Mossflower and serve you as a warrior.”

“She said that staying near the coast would bring up too many memories.” Martin added.

“Well then, I suppose we have room for another squirrel. Particularly one such as her. Now both of you, once you finish down here, start packing your things. We’re going home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've passed over a hundred total views! Honestly I'm still a bit surprised that anyone would have an interest in reading anything that I write.  
> At any rate, this one's a bit short, as is the next chapter, so the next one's probably going to go up a bit earlier than usual.


	17. Back to Mossflower

The journey home was mercifully slower than the journey out had been, and between that and their victory back at Salamandastron the army had a semi-festive air about it. As they marched the Woodlanders and Thousand-Eyes shouted and sang at one another with lyrics about stabbing things or penetrating shields Martin neither understood nor was able to get his father to explain, and whenever they came across some landmark or another the train would stop for a bit to take in the view. At least, until the sojourn in the marsh devolved into a giant mud-sling that managed to ruin all of Tsarmina’s dresses (personally, Martin was quite proud of roping Skipper into helping him out with that) and left the Thousand-Eyes shaking mud out of their armor for days, after which Verdauga had decreed that the first person to gawk when they were crossing the mountains was invited to throw themselves off them.

The marching had proceeded much smoother after that, although the vistas of Bat Mountpit did leave several creatures grumbling at their inability to stop and admire them.

Of course, they did have to stop every now and then, and one such stop about two-thirds of the way back happened to be on the side of the Great South Stream. Verdauga relented and let everyone take the day off to relax by the waterside. Martin then proceeded to be dragged down into the crowd by his brother, who had decided that just as Boar hadn’t cared about social rank back in the mountain neither would they. Not that Martin really minded, of course; it was fun to get a change in company every once in a while.

At the moment the two were lounging by the waterside along with Lady Amber, while in front of them Skipper and his otters frolicked in the stream and chased after fish. After a few minutes’ discussion turned to the freed slaves who had come back with them, who as Amber explained had essentially become her responsibility.

“When you get the chance, please tell your father that just because I’m a Woodlander and just because I happen to be closer to him than most of us that I’m not his bloody liaison. Not that I don’t intend to try getting everyone moved in – it’s just that I would _really_ appreciate some help, seeing as I have some three hundred creatures to place, and seeing as he’s the Lord of Mossflower.”

Martin and Gingivere stole a glance at one another before looking back at the water. Neither of them was quite sure what to say.

“Well, we’d love to, but…” Gingivere looked out at the otters. “Ever since the battle father’s been a little, well, off. He tries to hide it, but sometimes we just catch him _staring_. And the other day, when those little hedgehogs burst into his tent he looked like he was about to cry.”

All three of them were silent for a time.

“Did something happen with him?” Martin finally asked.

“He’s just tired out after the battle.” Amber lied. _I won’t tell them about the slave children. Not until they’re ready._ “Both we and Boar lost a lot of good fighters, so he’s probably still processing that.” Both of them were looking at her, unsure, so she forced a smile on her face. “Don’t worry about it. You’re too young to get caught up in your father’s concerns. You’re still young, so act like it and go play.”

As if on cue an otter swam up and splashed them, sending Gingivere shrieking back a good ten feet while Martin doubled over laughing. Then Skipper swam back up and lobbed a ball of mud right at _him_ , which Martin repaid with a ball of his own.

Amber watched them, chuckling, and tried to ignore that sudden cold feeling going down her back.

***

The weary army reached Kotir a few days afterwards and immediately disbanded, the Thousand-Eyes streaming into their barracks, the Woodlanders drifting off towards home, and the Greeneyes children towards the great hall for some food. Verdauga instead decided to search for Bella in order to give her Boar’s letter and found her standing on one of the battlements.

The badger bowed when Verdauga approached. “My lord, I hope you’ll find that Mossflower is still in one piece.” Looking at him, Bella noticed the large envelope he was carrying and tilted her head. “What’s that?”

Verdauga held it out to her. “Your father wanted me to give this to you. He read all of your letters and wanted to send one of his own, and as you can see it’s rather…large.”

Bella took it and began reading. “I’m glad to hear from him.” As she read Bella frowned. “But what’s this about his knee?”

“Greypaw the Bloody shattered it with a mace; Boar fears that it may never heal.”

Bella sighed. “Well, at least he’s alive. Was he in good health besides that?”

“Good enough, considering the beating he took.”

“I can be thankful for that.” She looked farther down. “Hmmm? A postage system?”

“Is it feasible?” Verdauga knew that Bella interacted with the Woodlanders more than he did, so she would likely have a better idea of any potential recruits.

“It just might be. There’s a robin named Chibb I’ll have to introduce to you.”

“Thanks for that.” Verdauga studied Bella. He was glad that she’d been able to hear from her father at last, and hopefully it would relieve some of her grief. “Any news about your son?”

The badger shook her head. “None. Barkstripe went out a week or so after you left to try and find _something_ , but some ways to the north of here in the Crows Pine Grove he got into it with a small band commanded by a six-clawed ferret and had to turn back. What of your children?” She asked, largely to change the subject. “I can’t believe that Gingivere and Martin snuck along like that.”

“Well, hopefully they’ve learned their lesson about foolhardy adventures. At any rate they’ve made it through everything in one piece, and that’s all I could have hoped for. Honestly, as much as I wish they hadn’t come along I think they’re both the better for it.”

“Oh?”

“As brothers they’ve definitely grown closer, and I’ve noticed that Gingivere seems a lot surer of himself than he was before. He smiles more, and laughs, and apparently, he’s taken it upon himself to get to know every Woodlander in Mossflower. Martin’s also settled down some – I think everything that happened has finally taught him a modicum of patience, and now that he finally knows about his blood father he seems a bit more at ease with his place in the family.”

“You told him about that?”

“I had to – he marched in the first day of the march after he met Timballisto from Moss Town and demanded an explanation.”

Bella chuckled. “Honestly, that boy – he’s the most stubborn creature I’ve ever met.” She smiled and shook her head. “But what about Tsarmina?”

At that the mood immediately soured and Verdauga turned away from the badger. “She’s…changing, Bella. Becoming more spiteful. Gingivere told me that she’d threatened both her brothers and accused them of plotting against her, and on the ride back she had this look on her face like she was plotting to kill someone.” The words started pouring out. “Sometimes, when I look at her, it’s like I’m seeing a completely different creature. I don’t know what to _do_ , Bella.” He realized his voice was wavering. “When Mina died I promised her that I would take care of our children. I _promised_. But if I can’t stop my daughter from becoming a monster, then I’ve failed her.”

Bella laid a paw on Verdauga’s shoulder in comfort. “She’s still young. There’s still time for her to change, and you never know. And besides, Martin and Gingivere are doing just fine, aren’t they?” Suddenly they heard a crash from the yard below. “And speaking of…”

Sure enough, Martin was soon visible sprinting across the grass and being chased by a very angry Ashleg.

“YOU SINGED MY LEG, YOU LITTLE BRAT!” Ashleg was huffing and puffing from the exertion. “WHEN I CATCH YOU’LL I’LL HANG YOU FROM THE RAFTERS!”

“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” Martin shouted back. “I’M SORRY, OK? I WAS TRYING TO LIGHT THE STOVE AND I DROPPED THE STUPID TORCH!”

“DROPPED IT MY FOOT!”

Verdauga loudly cleared his throat. “Is everything alright down there?”

Abruptly they both stopped, Ashleg somehow managing to spin 90 degrees while falling into a bow and Martin careening into a barrel. The sight was so comical that the old wildcat couldn’t help but laugh, even after all he’d endured, even with Tsarmina’s apparent slide into cruelty.

_Perhaps things will be fine after all_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post this early after all, seeing as it's only about 1500 words.


	18. Gonff

The summer heat was practically intolerable, the hottest Gonff had ever experienced in his fourteen years, and according to some of the others it was the hottest _they_ had ever seen either – Urthclaw swore that the sun was doing its best to cook Mossflower to a crisp. Hunched over, wiping sweat off his brow as he scoured the fields for any wheat that had managed to survive the drought, he was inclined to agree.

Gonff stopped for a moment and looked around. From where he was, it looked like the drought and the heat had claimed at least half the bloody field. “Great.” He mumbled. “A famine. Just what we need.”

The mouse knew that this wasn’t just an isolated problem, but something gripping the entire area. Even the lands farmed by Timballisto’s tribe of mice, the best lands in Mossflower, were yielding up greatly diminished harvests, and Gonff was pretty sure that the gardens in Brockhall had completely withered away. At the moment they were still getting by on supplies from their own stores and imports from Salamandastron, but they were running low and trade with the northlands had been cut off by a massive band of vermin that had taken up residence in some cave to the north, so what they had wasn’t likely to last much longer. In lean years like this normally the wildcats were “generous” enough to cut the tax burden down in order to alleviate the burden on the Woodlanders, but since old Verdauga and his top officials had gone north to drive the vermin out command was held by his daughter Tsarmina. And her lot were, well, less accommodating.

Case in point, that idiot weasel Cludd, who Gonff realized was strutting towards him. “Oi! Mouse! Stop staring into space and get to work! You lot’ve still got three-quarters of a field to pick, don’t you?”

“Oh, sod off, you oversized rag Can’t you see everything’s dead?”

The weasel gave him a shove. “Mind your tongue, mouse, or I’ll drag you to the dungeons. Honestly, you lot are all the same.” He grumbled. “No respect, after all we do for you to keep you safe.”

Gonff gave a mocking bow. “Sorry about that, your lordiness. I’ll make sure that in the future I’ll fawn over you with the proper courtesies. Would you like me to shine your boots? Grab some paper and start fanning you? Give you a backrub, perhaps? It’s mighty hot out, and we wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Before Cludd could figure out that Gonff was snarking at him the mouse ran off into the field. _Hah. Grateful my paw._ Some of the Thousand-Eyes weren’t so bad, like Splitnose the stoat or Whegg the rat, but ones like Cludd were practically unbearable. Still, Ben Stickle was always telling him to keep his head down when the higher officers came to call, and since the hedgehog had raised him since he was little Gonff felt he owed him that much.

He took one final look back at Cludd, sighed, and then continued his work. _Someday, weasel, I’ll get you for this_.

Their stores ran out five days later. For dinner that night all the Stickles could provide Gonff and their four little ones was a loaf and a half of bread along with some dried nuts. Afterwards, once the little ones had been sent to bed, Gonff sat with his adoptive father in front of the fireplace.

“Is there really nothing left? Not even in Brockhall or from Timballisto’s lands?” Gonff asked.

“Nothing they can bear to part with. They’re suffering just as much as we are, and any morsel they give to us is a morsel that would have gone to someone who needed it just as much.”

“Then what are we supposed to do? We’re starving down here.”

Ben shrugged, defeated. “What can we do? So long as the Thousand-Eyes keep taking half of everything as a tax we won’t have enough to feed ourselves.”

Gonff spit at the floor. “To hell with them, I say. What have they ever done for us?”

“Don’t speak like that, Gonff! A tongue like that’ll get you dragged off to the dungeons, or _worse_. You know what Tsarmina’s like. How cruel she is. We can’t lose you!”

“So then what?” Gonff stood up, angry. “Do we just wait around and starve? Because that’s what’s going to happen if nothing changes.”

“Gonff…”

“I’m sick of this! I’m sick of having to stay out in the blazing heat day after day, toiling just to give everything up to that lot in Kotir for ‘protection’! _They’re_ the ones we need protection from!” Gonff whirled around before the older hedgehog could respond and stormed out. All he could think of was how the four little ones had begged for more food, how Ben and Goody had had to tell them that no, this was all they had, how despite his brave face little Ferdy was getting thinner by the day as he let his siblings take some of what little he got…

_I need to think of something, or they’ll starve_. That much was obvious. He looked around, his gaze falling on the immense stone fortress that had loomed over him his entire life.

The same fortress where, even now, what was rightfully theirs sat on a shelf awaiting the pleasure of the cat queen herself or one of her bootlickers. It made Gonff burn inside, thinking about all that delicious food that they’d stolen from him. _Why should they get OUR bounty when all they do is sit around and bully us Woodlanders? It’s not fair._ He thought once again of the little ones starving in their beds, then of the food hidden away in Kotir, and made his decision.

_I’m going to steal it back. All of it._

 

Climbing the castle walls was easier than Gonff would have imagined. Back when he was little Ben used to say that he ought to have been born a squirrel the way he clambered up trees, and ascending the stone walls wasn’t too different. A foothold here, a quick shimmy to the side, a handhold to his right, and before the mouse knew it he was outside a room that his nose told him was the castle larder. As if on cue his stomach let out a long, low growl. “Oh, shush, you.” He mumbled before swinging through the window. Gonff landed neatly on all four paws and grabbed a nearby sack. Then, making his way to the nearest shelf he began to load up on cheese and bread, humming a little tune as he worked.

_Listen closely, “brave defenders”,_

_To what I have to say._

_For while you slumber in your beds,_

_Us “lower creatures” shout hooray!_

_Since underneath these golden stars,_

_Quiet as can be,_

_I’ll pinch all that is truly ours,_

_‘Till Mossflower is free!_

The sack was full now, stuffed to the brim with enough to feed all seven of them for at least a week. He’d even managed to pinch a bit of whiskey and managed to find a curved sword leaning against a barrel of carrots. Gonff held it up in the torchlight, examining it. “Hmmm. Not bad. Well, I doubt they’ll be missing just one sword.” Carefully, he hooked the sheath to his belt. “Consider it payment for not taking that pumpkin I had my eye on.”

Just then, Gonff heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Looking around he realized that he was too far from the window and dove behind a shelf instead. Shortly afterwards a rat and a ferret entered the room. The rat walked in a few paces and narrowed his eyes.

“Am I losing it,” he asked the ferret, “Or does the shelf of bread look a bit empty?”

The ferret looked over. “I don’t see anything.”

Not convinced, the rat walked up to the bread shelf and examined it. “Either I’m going blind, or there’s some empty space in the back.”

“Either you’re stupid, or making things up for the fun of it.” Gonff replied in a passable imitation of the ferret. It was half to try and get them riled up enough that he could slip out without being noticed, half for the fun of it.

And sure enough the rat shot up, banging his head as he went, and turned to his compatriot. “Oi! What in the gates of hell was that for?”

“Eh? What are you yammering about?” The ferret had been too busy helping himself to some wine to hear Gonff’s impression.

“Don’t play coy with me, matey, and don’t call me stupid neither!”

Affronted, the ferret glared at him. “I never called you stupid!”

“Don’t lie to me, you lout!”

And then the two went at it, wrestling each other to the floor as Gonff did his best not to laugh while creeping his way towards the window. Unfortunately, before he could get there, the ferret spoke again.

“You know what I reckon? Maybe we’ve a thief in here.” Gonff stopped cold.

“Eh? How d’you figure?”

“Well, if someone’s in here, that would explain both your missing bread and the insult that I didn’t say.”

“And how would they have come in, idiot? The door was locked.”

“From the window, maybe?”

“The window?” The rat snorted. “What, they grew wings and flew in?” He pulled the ferret to his feet and yanked him over to the window. Then, forcing his head over the side, he began gesturing frantically around. “And how on earth would this mystical thief of yours climb in here? There’s nothing but solid stone out there?”

Then they were arguing again, and as they did Gonff made a hasty escape through the door, chuckling all the while. After he’d made it a safe distance he stopped and calmed himself.

“Alright, Gonff, that’s your escape scuppered, so what now?” He looked up at a nearby window. “Nope, THAT’s too small. Maybe upstairs?” He started quietly bounding up the stairs, listening for pursuers. Finally, a little ways up he found a landing with a window big enough. He jiggled the window frame – it was locked. “Eh, I won’t let that stop me.” It wasn’t ideal, but in theory his stolen sword could act as a lockpick. With that in mind he pulled it out and began jiggling.

“Come on… come on… I need a break here…”

So intent was the young mouse on his lockpicking that he failed to hear the footsteps approaching from below and missed the appearance of a sweaty mouse fresh from some late-night exercise in the yard. The new mouse looked at Gonff, head tilted quizzically.

“What are you doing?”

Gonff jumped a mile and spun a good 90 degrees, sword in hand, just barely missing the other mouse. “By the fur, matey! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

The other mouse just blinked and pushed the sword out of the way. “Mind telling me what you’re doing with this sword and that window?”

“What’s it look like? I’m liberating stuff from the wildcats’ larder.”

“Why?”

Gonff gave him a look. “What do you mean, _why?_ I’m taking back what they took from us! You know how things are down in Mossflower – while these Greeneyes are feasting on our spoils we’re starving!”

Now the other mouse looked even more confused. “What are you talking about?” He looked at the bag, then at the sword, and then frowned. “Wait a minute.” He leapt back a foot, drawing his own sword. “You’re a thief.” He leveled his blade at Gonff. “Give that to me. Now.”

Gonff raised his own blade. “Get your own supplies, matey! And don’t call me a thief either!”

“I don’t want to hurt you. Give me what you stole, and I’ll let you go.”

Now _Gonff_ was the confused one. _What’s this bloke’s problem?_ “Sorry, mate, but I can’t let you do that. I need this too much.”

The other mouse just sighed. “Have it your way.”

The subsequent hail of blows was almost more than Gonff could handle. If it weren’t for the fact that this other mouse was obviously holding back, he was sure that his head would have been chopped off within the first exchange. Grunting with exertion, Gonff managed to parry a chop aimed at his wrist and took the opportunity to withdraw up a couple steps. The other mouse stepped forwards, implacable. _By the fur!_ Gonff thought. _He can’t be any less than a year younger than me!_ They volleyed again, and Gonff was pressed back another few steps. By now he was getting seriously exhausted. He had to do _something_ , and fast. _Well, best try and get this bloke off balance._

As if the exchange had been no more tiring than snapping his fingers, Gonff grinned. “Hah. I don’t know who you are, but you fight like an arthritic eighty-year-old.” He tried to project more confidence than he felt. “There’s this little hedgehog I know named Coggs who’s twice the swordsbeast as you. He’s six, by the way.”

“Oh _really?_ ” The other mouse didn’t look offended so much as amused. “I’m not the one getting chased halfway up the tower, now am I?” 

“This is me going easy on you! Wouldn’t be nice of me to strike you down in a second, now would it?”

“Oh, _please_. You swing that sword like my brother, and he once managed to stab himself with a kitchen knife.” Now the mouse was smirking right back at him. “Honestly, thief, you move like a drunk. Friendly suggestion – next time you try something like this, save the wine for _after_ you escape.”

“I told you – I’m NOT a thief!”

“And I’m not a mouse! Wait until I tell Tsarmina!” Then the mouse leapt back up and the volley began again. As they fought he kept talking. “Like I said – your form is terrible!”

“It’s just more complicated than someone as thick as you could possible understand.”

“Oh- _ho!_ That’s quite the claim!”

Now they were both grinning, and Gonff realized that he’d dropped the sack some moments ago, but for some reason he didn’t care. Getting to trade blows both verbal and physical with this unknown mouse was, well, _fun._ Gonff forgot everything, forgot the food and forgot that he was still in the middle of Kotir, and lost himself in the moment. “And don’t even get me started on those clothes. What are you – a little girl!”

“At least I’m not in a burlap sack!”

“Aw, shut it! This _happens_ to be good climbing wear!”

Just after that last insult landed the other mouse managed to shove Gonff to the ground. “Ah-HA! So you admit you snuck in here!”

Gonff realized he was beaten. “Fine, you win.” The other mouse extended his hand, but once Gonff was on his feet he sucker-punched his opponent. “Just kidding!” Then, panting, he made a dash for the food, only to trip on the stairwell and fall flat on his face. The other mouse started laughing.

“Is this part of your ‘incomprehensible form’ as well?” He stepped in front of Gonff, grabbed the sack, and then turned around. “Here – take it.”

“Really?”

“Sure. That was the most fun I’ve had in a while.” Gonff took the sack and stood up. “What’s your name, anyways.”

“Gonff, prince of mousethieves-in-training.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Gonff.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Martin.”

Gonff went to take his hand and stopped, eyes wide. “Wait, Martin? As in, Martin _Greeneyes?_ ” Suddenly Gonff remembered the stories Bella had told him about the strong-willed young mouse that lord Verdauga had adopted as his own. _Oh, bloody hell._

“The very same. Is something the matter?”

For once Gonff was at a loss for words. _The Greeneyes mouse. Of course, it has to be the blooming Greeneyes mouse._ “Uhhh…I’m…well…I shouldn’t have…”

“Are you alright, Gonff?”

Before he could respond, both mice heard a flurry of footsteps from below them. The two Thousand-Eyes from the larder burst in, along with a stoat Gonff _thought_ was named Thickbreech. Or was it Thicktail?

Regardless, the three of them immediately lowered their spears at him. “Drop your weapon, mouse. In the name of lady Tsarmina Greeneyes, acting lady of Kotir, you’re under arrest.”

Martin tried to protest that he’d promised that the other mouse would be able to leave unharmed, but it was to no avail. The ferret pushed past him and shoved Gonff onto the ground, pinning him while his compatriots shackled him. Then, dragging the mouse to his feet, they began marching him down the hallway.

Gonff caught Martin’s eyes as he passed. The other mouse looked back, eyes full of guilt, then looked away.

“I’m sorry, Gonff.”

Then the other mouse was out of sight and Gonff was on his way down to the dungeons, too exhausted to resist. His captors opened up a cell door and tossed him in, not bothering to undo his shackles.

“Rest up, mouse. Our lady’ll want to see you in the morning. Won’t that be a show?” Then, cackling, they were off.

Gonff just sat on the floor, still in shock over what had happened. He’d come to try and take some food, just enough to keep everyone fed, but instead he was in the belly of the beast and about to face the cruelest creature in Mossflower.

_Not good. Definitely not good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, after a timeskip of six years the story picks back up with a familiar face from the original books! So far I've found that writing Gonff is both highly fun and sort of challenging; while on one hand it's fun to use him to unleash a bit of snark and in general he's a great person to add in some levity, I also feel like there's a fair bit of pressure to write him well considering that Brian Jacques himself said that Gonff was his favorite character. To do give the Prince of Mousethieves anything less than his full due would feel disrespectful, so I hope that I've done a good job at capturing his personality.


	19. Judgement

All things considered, the Kotir cells were actually a surprisingly pleasant temperature. Sure, they had that normal oppressive dampness Gonff would have expected to find in the bowels of Tsarmina’s lair, but in the brutal heat of the summer the dampness was actually a welcome relief. Of course, a dungeon was still a dungeon, and as the Thousand-Eyes hadn’t even bothered to lay down some straw for him to lie on Gonff expected that the night was going to be long and uncomfortable. Nor did he expect there to be any food coming – in fact, the mouse wholly imagined that he’d be left alone to stew and squirm until the acting lady of Mossflower needed amusement.

What he _didn’t_ expect, therefore, was that less than an hour into his stay in the dungeon the door would open. Gonff had no idea what it was, but he imagined that it wasn’t good. Maybe Tsarmina had suddenly entered the mood for some late-night entertainment?

“ _Please_ tell me you’ve brought some peanut butter and wine? I missed my dinner.” Whoever it was, they wouldn’t find him cowering. “But really, anything you’d give me would be appreciated, as long as it’s not just gruel and piss. Even thieves have their standards.”

“Are rolls and milk an acceptable step up?” When the voice spoke Gonff did a double-take. Even by the standards of the rather-unlikely turn of events he’d faced the past few hours the creature who’d come to visit him seemed especially surprising.

“Martin? That you?” Gonff forced himself to roll over; it took him a bit, considering the chains. Had his life not been in mortal danger, the mouse probably would have been embarrassed. Regardless, when he finally managed to roll onto his back and sit up, he was greeted by the sight of a rather embarrassed mouse standing alongside a ferret.

The ferret immediately stepped forwards with his spear. “That’s ‘my lord’ to you, peasant.”

Before he could advance any closer, however, Martin held up his hand. “That’s enough, Dogfur. I wish to speak with him alone.”

“But my lord –”

“I’ll be fine in here by myself. If you’re really that concerned, just wait outside.”

“But –”

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

Dogfur quickly bowed and left, shutting the door behind him. Martin sighed and turned to Gonff. “Sorry about that, mate.” He walked around the other mouse and sat on the ground. “Are you still in one piece?”

Gonff, still confused by what was going on, just nodded. Suddenly, he felt a tugging sensation around his arms. “What’re you doing back there?” He turned to try and look.

“Well, if you’d _hold still_ , I’d _like_ to get these cuffs off you.”

Gonff complied, and a couple more seconds later he was free. He got to his feet, rubbing his wrists. “Thanks.”

Martin shrugged. “It’s my fault you’re in here, isn’t it?” He held up a roll. “Here – you look like you’re starving.”

Gonff took it eagerly and began attacking it, savoring the sweet, warm taste. The milk was similarly welcome if not quite as delicious, and after a couple minutes of silent eating Gonff turned to Martin. “So – what brings you down to my cell, matey?”

Martin looked down at his paws. “I… I wanted to apologize. For everything. You were just trying to feed your friends and I started treating it like some game. It’s not right.”

Gonff wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The Greeneyes were supposed to _demand_ apologies, not _make_ them. Instead, he kept silent and continued eating. After a few more moments Gonff realized Martin was looking at him.

“How bad is it, actually, down in the fields? Everyone here tells me that things are fine and that even with the drought you lot are eating just as well as normal, but I’m guessing that’s not exactly accurate.”

Gonff couldn’t believe his ears. “You really don’t know?” It didn’t seem possible that someone could be _that_ in the dark. But then again, how else could he explain the curious look on Martin’s face? “No, I guess you don’t. Things are, well, awful.” He explained everything: the crop failures, the starving, how Tsarmina’s bullies insisted on taking food that the Woodlanders couldn’t afford to lose.

Martin listened quietly, at a complete loss for words, and when Gonff was finished the other mouse took a while to start speaking. “That shouldn’t be happening.” Martin stood up and started pacing the cell. “But Tsarmina told me that they _did_ move to half-taxes when I asked, and it made sense at the time because less food was coming in. But if it’s really like this in town, then that means…” He trailed off.

“It means that the bitch you call your sister’s killing us.” Gonff immediately regretted what he’d just said. He was freely insulting one of the Greeneyes family, not just within hearing range of a guard, but directly to one of the family’s faces! Mentally, he kicked himself. _Great going, idiot. A mighty fine job you’re doing, digging yourself a deeper hole_.

Predictably, after that last outburst Dogfur burst back in and slammed Gonff against the wall. “Speak about our lady like that again, mouse, and they’ll be the last words you ever say!”

“Dogfur, _put him down_.” Martin’s voice cracked like a whip, all the guilt replaced with a lordly voice Gonff wouldn’t have expected of him. “Let him go, or _you’ll_ be the one regretting it. Tonight I promised Gonff safe conduct, and I’ve already been made enough of a liar without your help.”

Muttering, Dogfur relented and stormed out of the cell. Gonff stood up, messaged his throat, and realized that he wasn’t able to look at Martin any more. “Go.”

“What?”

“Go. Just go.”

Reluctantly, Martin complied, leaving Gonff by himself. Once the other mouse was gone Gonff went back over to the rolls, picked one up, and threw it against the wall. _Gonff, you really are a bloody idiot! Know what you just did? Sent away your one ticket out of here, that’s what!_

Gonff lay down on the stone and shut his eyes, trying not to think about what was likely to happen tomorrow. It was going to be a long night.

 

At some point he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing Gonff knew it was morning and he was being roughly jerked around by the shoulder by one creature while another bound his hands.

“Rise and shine, mousey. Her ladyship awaits.” Dogfur forced him to his feet.

“Are you always this charming?” Gonff managed a smile. “You should smile a bit more. People might actually like you that way.” The only response was a cuff across the head that had the mouse seeing stars, then the three were on the move. Gonff knew better than to resist; if he tried anything, no doubt he’d earn nothing more than a spear through the gut. Instead, as they walked he tried to make small talk. “Weather’s good today, I hope?” He asked the rat from last night. “I wasn’t able to get a look when you two were being so kind as to wake me up.”

“Shut it.”

“Now, now, there’s no need to be rude. Didn’t your mum teach you to mind your manners?”

“I _said_ , shut it!” Gonff felt another blow to the head and decided that any more talk would likely be as good an idea as making a break for it. Eventually he was forced through the doors into the great Kotir audience chamber, where Tsarmina Greeneyes herself was waiting for him in her father’s chair. She just sat there, looking at him like he was nothing more than a smudge of dirt, and the obvious contempt on her face was more than the mouse could take. Honestly, if it weren’t for the chains and the guards, he’d have lunged at her and tried to rip his throat out. Since he couldn’t do that, he forced himself to look around the rest of the room. He noticed that just to the side of lord Verdauga’s great seat there were a pair of smaller chairs, ones that he imagined were to be occupied by his children when their father wanted them present as he passed judgement.

Surprisingly enough, one of them was actually occupied. Martin was looking straight at him, and Gonff noticed that the other mouse looked even guiltier than he had the night before. _Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?_ He wondered about that.

Tsarmina cleared her throat. “Normally, when in the presence of your betters it’s policy not to ignore them. Or do they not teach you that down in the huts?”

“Normally we’re too busy licking the boots of every passing Thousand-Eye.” Gonff couldn’t stop himself; something in her voice was really grating. “Excuse me my error, your pussyness.”  If Gonff wasn’t mistaken, he heard a slight chuckle working its way around the hall.

Apparently Tsarmina heard it too, because when she spoke again her voice was dangerously low. “Watch what you say, mouse. If I wanted I could have you stretched out on a rack before lunchtime.” She reclined back in her chair. “Of course, if I do that I won’t hear the end of it from my sweet brothers or that badger father insists on keeping around.” She looked down at him. “What possessed you to steal from our larder anyways?”

“Like you don’t know! It’s at your hand that we’re starving, isn’t it?” Again, he couldn’t stop himself. “There’s barely enough food being grown to feed the country, but you lot insist on taking half of everything just to keep your own bellies fat!”

Again, his outburst earned him a blow to the head, this time from the butt of a spear. When the stars faded enough that Gonff could see Tsarmina again, he noticed that her ears had flattened straight down and the hackles on her neck were raised up. _Oops_.

“Mouse, you’re trying my patience.” She growled at him. “Apologize. Now. Or I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

The sensible thing to do would have been to follow suit, but Gonff just couldn’t. He was sick of kowtowing to her and her lot while everyone down in Moss Town starved. So, instead of apologizing, he just spit.

The result was instantaneous. Tsarmina lept to her feet. “You _dare_ mock me? I am lady Tsarmina Greeneyes, rightful ruler of Mossflower, and I will _not_ be made a fool of!” She gestured to Cludd, who Gonff hadn’t noticed until then. “Take him down to the dungeons and rip out his insolent tongue!”

“Aye, my lady.”

“And to think, Mouse,” Tsarmina leered at him. “I was going to be merciful and let you get away with losing a hand. But you had to open your mouth, and there must be consequences.”

They began dragging Gonff out, but the mouse dug in his heels and spoke again, this time not to Tsarmina but to Martin, who had until then been completely ignored by everyone in the room. “Is this fine by you, Martin?” He shouted. “Come on, matey – you’re a mouse just like me! You can’t let your sister get away with this!” He braced himself for another blow to the head, but it didn’t land.

Instead, Martin got out of his own chair and held a hand. The effect was somewhat less impressive than when Tsarmina did it, but still, it was something.

“Cludd, Dogfur, Redclaw, wait a moment.”

Tsarmina turned to her brother, glaring. “Stay out of this, furball. This doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m the one who stopped him long enough to capture him, wasn’t I?” All of a sudden, impossibly, Martin was smiling. “And as I recall, last spring someone in our family passed a rule saying that if one of us captured a criminal we had the right to decide their punishment.” He placed a paw on his chin. “Now who was that again? Do you know who, Cludd?”

“It was your lady sister.” The weasel grumbled.

“Ah. Thanks for the reminder.” Then the mouse turned to Tsarmina. “You named him a liar when he said that he stole because he needs to. Yet when I took a peek in the bag, I saw nothing but bread and cheese. Wouldn’t someone who was stealing for the sake of it choose something a little fancier to take?”

“Perhaps…” It was clear that Tsarmina wasn’t sure where her brother was going with this.

“All that mouse took was the simplest of foods. And a bit of whiskey on the side, which I have to say is a bit of an…interesting choice.” Martin waved a paw. “But that is neither here nor there. To me, the fact that Gonff stole naught but what he did suggests that he stole not out of desire, but out of desperation.”

“But he attacked you, didn’t he? Surely you can’t excuse that.”

“To be fair, I attacked him first. And besides, if attacking me was an automatic crime you would’ve died more than that Last Centurion in the books Gingivere likes.” He grinned. “Or did you forget that? Not to mention, if you kill him and the Woodlanders take issue enough to start some trouble, which they _will_ if you start lopping off tongues and hands willy-nilly, I’ll make sure that father knows the cause of the unrest. You know, the _actual_ lord of Mossflower.”

Tsarmina was glaring daggers now, and Gonff took a moment to appreciate the sheer balls Martin seemed to have. Then, impossibly, the wildcat grit her teeth and looked away. “Fine. I’ll let you do with him as you wish. He’s not worth my time anyways.” After that she got up and stalked off.

Martin sat back down. “Cludd, get those chains off him and tell the kitchens to start preparing a hot meal to be delivered to my chambers for both of us.”

“But Martin –”

“No buts. Just do it.”

Then, before Gonff knew it, he was free again, and now it was the Thousand-Eyes that were leaving. When the two mice were alone Gonff was finally able to speak.

“So I, uh, guess I owe you thanks for that.” He legitimately had no idea what to say.

“Think nothing of it. As I said, it’s my fault I got you into this. And I truly am sorry. Gingivere always tells me to not make myself look like an idiot around the woodlanders, but I never listen…” Martin cleared his throat and blushed slightly. “Anyways, come. I want to talk with you in my room about what’s going on in town.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update once again.


	20. Out from Kotir

Martin had to admit – it was strange to have someone besides his father or brother in his room for. Yet there Gonff was, sitting at his desk, looking somewhat unsure himself. The two looked at each other, both at a loss for words on how to start the conversation. So, instead, Martin just studied Gonff. Father had taught him to always observe a creature when engaging with them – oftentimes, what you could see was just as important as what you heard. The mouse was somewhat plump, that was obvious, but at the same time his face had a bit of a haggard quality, like it was losing weight. His eyes, too, had bags that suggested many a sleepless night, while the way the way was reclining in the chair suggested that he was ready to try and make an escape at any moment. In short, someone whose situation probably was as desperate as what he was claiming.

These observations finally prompted Martin to speak up. “Just so you know, I ordered him to bring a squad of Thousand-Eyes down to assess the situation and come back to me. I will have the truth, not whatever lies Tsarmina’s cooking up.”

“And then what? Are you just going to wave a magic wand and bring the food back?”

“More or less.” Martin smiled. “You have my word that I’ll return you what is due.”

Gonff snorted. “Like your word that I’d be able to leave the castle unharmed? Somehow I doubt that your sister will go for that.”

“My sister is no longer a part of this. If she raises a fuss, just ignore her and let her sputter herself out.”

“Easy for you to say, matey. You can get away with things we can’t.” Gonff sighed. “Besides, it might already be too late for some of us as it is. And giving us back the food taken so far will only delay the problem, make no mistake on that.”

“What do you mean?” Martin was confused. "If you have your food won't you be able to last until things settle down?"

Gonff looked at him. ‘What’s to stop those bullies your sister commands from coming by the next day and taking half of everything back, or taking half of whatever we manage to yank from the ground next week, or the week after that?”

“If they try that, just remind them that I’ve order that you all be left be.”

Gonff stood up, and Martin noticed that the other mouse was shaking a bit. “By the fur, do you have _any_ idea how we’re treated down there? Look, matey, if I went up to Cludd or Dogfur or any lot of their ilk and tried to tell them ‘oi, the little lord told you to leave us alone’, I’d be lucky to escape with a punch to the face. Some of them’d just take out my tongue right then and there for giving them a bit of cheek! Martin, most of the Thousand-Eyes look at us like we’re just specs of dirt. And that’s when they bother to look at us at all. And you’re father’s no different. Most of the time, so long as the grain comes in on time he wouldn’t care if half of us was raping the other half.”

“That's crossing a line.” Martin tried to keep his voice level. “Say what you will about the bootlickers in the Thousand-Eyes or about my sister, I don’t care, but _don’t_ ” – the mouse started growling somewhat – “you _ever_ speak of my father in that manner. Next time, before you run your mouth, ask Bella or Lady Amber. They’ll set you straight.”

Gonff realized the problem. It seemed that Martin had mistaken the way that Verdauga treated the few Woodlanders to earn his respect for how he treated all of them. “They’re the only ones. Unless the likes of us smallfolk manage to do something that really impresses him, we’re just nameless bodies working the fields. True, he trusts Bella, and Amber, and Timballisto, but when have you ever seen him talking _with_ another Woodlander instead of talking _at_ them?”

Martin thought about it and realized that the other mouse was right – the number of Woodlanders that Verdauga Greeneyes treated as anything resembling an equal could be counted on one paw. “I’m sorry – I wasn't thinking.”

“It seems there’s a lot you don’t know, matey.” Gonff’s voice was a lot more bitter than he’d meant it to be.

“Could I come, then? To Moss Town, I mean.” Martin had always wished to get the chance to explore the town, and now it seemed more important than ever. “If there really are this many problems going on down there, I’d like to see what I can do to fix them. Father will listen to me. I _know_ he will.”

Gonff sighed again. “I doubt that you’ll be able to solve everything so easily.”

“No, but it’s a start. He may not think of you often, but he _does_ have more standards than you're giving him credit for.” Martin hopped off his bed and started to pull some things out of his wardrobe – a cloak, some rope, a couple of metal spikes, among others – and stashed them in a sack. Gonff looked at him.

“Why…?”

Martin chuckled. “You’re not the only mouse to creep around where he shouldn’t.” He grabbed his bedsheet and started ripping at it. “Say, while I’m doing this can you grab a book for me? It’s the one called ‘The Great Moss Keep’.”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Gonff blushed and hoped that Martin couldn’t see it. He looked at the bookshelf; there were a _lot_ of books there, more than he’d seen anywhere but in Brockhall. He squinted at the titles and tried to read them. It was slow going: even though Bella had tried to teach him the basics, between her travels around both Mossflower Country and Salamandastron as well as his own duties in the field he’d not been able to practice much. “Let’s see,” he mumbled, “G-R-A-T?” There weren’t any books like that on the shelf. “G-R-A-T-E?” None of those either.

“It’s the one with the red binding and green letters. Third shelf down.” Martin didn’t even look up from his packing,  and thus didn't see the other mouse's struggles, which Gonff thought as a mercy.

“I was just getting to that one.” Gonff found it soon afterwards; apparently ‘Great’ was spelled ‘G-R-E-A-T’, which was news to him. He plopped it on the table just as Martin finished packing and looked up.

He raised his eyebrow. “You _can_ read, mate, can’t you?”

“I can read well enough, thank you very much.” Gonff tried to hide his embarrassment.

Martin decided not to press the issue and instead flipped open the book to a page showing a diagram of the walls. “My room is right up ‘here’,” he said as he tapped a spire partway up, “and the southern gate is over ‘here’,” he tapped some ways below it, “so it should be a straight shoot. Unless things have changed it ought to be a fairly simple climb, if a bit dangerous.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“I tried, when I was six. Nearly gave my father a heart attack.” He shook his head. “But that’s neither here nor there. You’re good at climbing?”

Gonff grinned. “Are otters good at swimming? Old Ben Stickle used to say that I should’ve been born a squirrel.”

Martin nodded. “Excellent. Right, then. Once Whegg comes back and reports we’ll head out.”

Just then Gonff’s stomach growled. “actually, if it’s not too much trouble for your lordliness, I’d like to have some vittles first. When’s lunch getting here, anyways?”

***

They stole out at sunset. The Thousand-Eyes Martin had sent down to Mossflower had taken so long to get back that Martin and Gonff wound up eating dinner at the castle as well, which was a nice spread of rye bread and seedcake; both mice dug into it without abandon, although afterwards Martin felt pretty guilty, since scout reports confirmed that things down in Mossflower were indeed as bad as Gonff had been saying. Because of this Martin made sure to set aside a good portion of his dinner so that another mouth could have it.  After they ate Martin explained the plan of escape: guard shift between the evening and night guard happened in stages from 9 to 9:30 at night, and during that time there was a brief window where the entire route between the Greeneyes spire and the southern gate would be completely unguarded. Within that window, about five minutes, they’d have to climb down a hundred feet of stone and mortar before making their way across the courtyard. Then it would simply be a matter of cutting through the gatehouse without being notice among the hustle and bustle.

“Is that all?” Gonff frowned. “It seems easy to me.”

“ _Easy?_ ” Martin looked at him. “We’ve five minutes to descend a hundred feet!”

Gonff shrugged. “It’s not that hard, matey. I do it all the time. Well, not so much here, but in the woods or at St. Ninian’s church.” He grabbed the rope and began winding it around his stomach. “Look, if it really worries you this much, I’ll go first and tell you where to put your paws.” He wrapped his own paws in cloth. “Right, if you’ll tie your end of the rope around your waist, we can be off.”

The descent was quicker than Martin would have liked but slower than Gonff would’ve on account of their differing skill levels. Going down was a fair bit harder than going up, and in his escapades around the castle Martin had mostly done the latter, meaning that this was still a bit uncertain. Gonff, on the other hand, really was like a squirrel; had they not been joined by rope, Martin was certain, the other mouse would’ve made it to the bottom before he’d even made it halfway. And the slower pace was clearly making him impatient, judging by the number of “come ons” and “hurrys” Martin heard emanating from below him. Finally, after Gonff insisted that they get a move on for the umpteenth time, Martin had had enough and removed his hand from the wall long enough to make a gesture that his father or Bella would have been scandalized to see. After that the other mouse was mostly quiet, although Martin could’ve sworn that he was chuckling under his breath, but every now and then Gonff spoke up to give Martin a bit of climbing advice.

After four very long minutes, they were down to the last twelve feet. Gonff spoke up again. “How’re you at jumping and rolling, Martin?”

“What?”

“You know. Breaking your fall with a roll. You good at that?”

Martin shook his head. “I can honestly say I’ve never tried that. Why?”

“We’re running out of time, and if we could jump it’d make things go a little faster. Every second counts.”

“Go ahead and do it then if you want, but I'm not going to risk it.” Martin craned his neck and looked out into the twilight. “There’s a row of targets you, down-left of us, you could hide behind until I finish climbing. You’ve got a knife, right?”

Evidently Gonff did, Because Martin felt the rope shudder as he cut through it. After a couple of seconds Martin heard the rope snap and Gonff jump with a _thud_. Carefully Martin descended another six feet before taking the chance to leap himself. He landed, rubbed his legs, and dove behind the shooting targets right as the night patrol started marching across the lawn. He waited for them to take their positions before turning to Gonff and nodding towards the gatehouse. Silently, the two crept out and across the yard before entering.

The gatehouse was about as crowded as would be expected, but thankfully in the hustle-and-bustle to get to and from their assigned places none of the Thousand-eyes even so much as registered the presence of the two mice weaving their way through the crowd; at most, two or three blinked, shook their head, and convinced that they were just seeing things. Finally, the two mice arrived at the southern gate, opened it, and slipped out into the cool evening. Not wanting to get caught they positively booked it until they reached the treeline, upon which Gonff doubled over with laughter.

“Out of the belly of the beast at last!” He slapped Martin on the shoulder. “Nice going, matey! Guess you’re not so bad, after all?”

“What do you mean, ‘after all’?”

Gonff looked at the other mouse. “Well, to be honest, I’d kind of had my doubts. This time I’ve been worried that you’re not taking this seriously, or that this whole thing’s just a day’s amusement for you.”

Martin was a bit put-off by that. “I can assure you that I’m quite serious. If creatures are starving, I can’t just stand idly by, now can I?”

“I’ve learned not to expect too much from you  Kotir lot, honestly.” Even in the dark Martin could tell that the other mouse was frowning. “But I s’pose that it’s neither here or there. Come on – we need to start heading northeast if we want to get into town before midnight.”

Gonff started jogging off, and Martin followed. After a few minutes of silent running, he could see the lights of Moss Town spreading out before him, and he realized that he was starting to get a bit nervous: if the Woodlanders were starving under the iron paw of one Greeneyes, how would they react to another wandering into their midst in the middle of the night? Martin’s pace started faltering. _Is this really the best idea?_

As if reading his mind Gonff stopped and turned to him. “We’re not going to bite, by the way. Everyone here’s decent enough. Especially since you’re taking the time to stir your lordly arse and come speak with us.”

Martin couldn’t help but snort. “You know, it’s a wonder that you still have a tongue, considering how much it seems to lack any sort of filter.” He mentally shook his head. _Stop being so paranoid. These are Amber’s people, and Skipper’s, and your blood father’s. They won’t harm you_. “But lead on, O prince of Mousethieves.”


	21. Peace Breaks Down

Martin and Gonff stopped outside a small house some ways into town. Gonff explained that he lived here with a family of hedgehogs named the Stickles before knocking on the door.

A somewhat haggard-looking hedgehog stepped out, but his worried expression vanished almost immediately when he saw the two mice. “Gonff! Thank heavens you’re alright!” He picked the mouse up and hugged him. “When that rat came by earlier and wouldn’t answer us about where you were we feared the worst.”

After extricating himself from the hug Gonff gave the older hedgehog a somewhat sheepish look. “Right, Ben, sorry about that. But what was I supposed to do? The larders were stocked full to bursting, and just afterwards I ran into someone at the worst possible time –”

“– Who also happens to be the entire reason why you’re standing here right now.” Martin interjected.

“Really?” Ben looked at the other mouse. “Then I owe you my thanks.” The hedgehog held out a paw. “I’m Ben Stickle. And you are?”

Martin shook it, fighting down the sense of Déjà vu suddenly welling up. “Martin Greeneyes.” As expected Ben’s eyes widened upon hearing his surname, so Martin kept talking. “But don’t go treating me like I’m my sister or my father, please. I’m here to learn, and to help.”

It didn’t help, and Ben just stared with his jaw open. Then, automatically, he dropped to one knee. “My lord. Forgive me. I hope my son wasn’t any trouble.”

The two mice looked at each other. “Is he always like this?” Martin asked.

“Well, we’ve never had little lordlings waltz up to our door, so I can’t say whether he is or not.”

“Mind your tongue, Gonff! You shouldn’t speak like that to him!”

“Ben, I attacked him with a sword and he showed up at my cell with a bunch of rolls. He’s not going to kill me over a little cheek.”

Martin sighed. “Look. Just treat me like any other mouse. Like I said, I’m not my sister or my father, so you don’t have to talk to me with your eyes facing the dirt. Just treat me like I’m any other guest that Gonff might drag home.”

Ben looked up at him and relaxed when he saw that Martin was being serious. “As you wish, My l – I mean Martin. Why exactly are you here, though? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m here because Gonff said that everyone down here was starving, and I wanted to see how bad things were for myself. As a Greeneyes I owe it to you to make sure that you’re not being downtrodden into the dirt. And besides,” Martin put a paw on his chest, “my father was one of you, so by blood I’m just as much a Woodlander.”

Ben nodded. “I see. Well, there’s not much that we can do this late, so let us keep talking in the morning. In the meantime, our house is yours.”

Ben led them into the house, where in one corner a group of four children were dozing along with their mother in a large bed. Ben turned to his guest. “It’s not much, as you can see.”

Martin just shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I can make do with the floor.” Seeing that the hedgehog wasn’t convinced, Martin gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m here to put a stop to my sister’s cruelty, not kick you out of your beds.”

“Well, if you insist…”

The last thing Martin saw before he drifted to sleep was Ben and Gonff sitting in front of the dormant fireplace, staring at it as though there was a blazing fire.

***

Martin had expected to, at worst, be roused from his sleep by the four young ones he’d glimpsed the night before; not exactly the most peaceful of ways to wake up, to be sure, but still nothing too horrible.

Therefore it was a surprise when instead he was forced from his sleep by a loud bang on the door and the sound of yelling both inside and out.

“Open up, hedgepig! I’d have words with you!” It was an unpleasant weasel by the name of Scratt. Martin shot up and looked around for cover, and seeing none instead dashed over to the cookfire and pretended that he was trying to stoke it for breakfast. He suddenly realized that five hedgehogs were staring at him, rather confused to have woken up and found another mouse sleeping on their floor, so he turned to them and raised a finger to his mouth. _I’ll explain later!_ He mouthed. He had a sneaking suspicion that him leaving the castle had something to do with the Thousand-Eyes showing up, and if Scratt noticed him him the blowback on the Stickles probably wouldn’t be good.

Ben opened up the door and spoke with more backbone than Martin would’ve figured, considering their conversation last night. The mouse found himself somewhat impressed.

“What do you want, you great bully? You’ve already taken half our food for the larders, haven’t you? There’s not enough left to feed a family.”

Scratt scoffed. “I’m not here for your leftovers, hedgepig. I’m here because last night a couple of mice did a runner, and one of them just _happens_ to be a certain self-named Prince of Mousethieves.” The weasel looked his victim square in the eye. “You wouldn’t happen to know where he might’ve run off to, would you?”

“I’m right here, you rogue.” Gonff’s voice was cold as ice. “and before you ask I’m not in the castle because lord Martin said I could leave. I didn’t escape, I was let go.”

“Oh really?” Scratt started absentmindedly fingering a knife. “You know, it’s funny that you said that, since the little lord just so happens to be the other mouse I’m looking for.” He went over to the Stickles’ table, picked up an apple, and started skinning it. “Now if I didn’t know better I’d say you were lying to me.” With a casual flick of the knife half of the apple clattered onto the floor, leaving the rest unsaid.

“Leave him alone!” It was one of the little ones. “Gonff said that he’s here because he was let out, and that’s the truth! He did nothing wrong!”

Scratt slapped him. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He turned his gaze to the mouse sitting by the fire.

“Oi, you. Mousey.”

Martin froze. _Uh oh_.

“Yes, my lord?” Martin tried to sound as timid as Gingivere did when Tsarmina went on one of her spit-inducing rages. “What is it?”

“You’ve been awfully quiet this whole time.”

“I – I’ve been tending to this here fire, my lord. I don’t know nothing about no escapes.”

Scratt squinted at him. “You look familiar, mouse. Have I seen you somewhere?”

_Not good_. “I – I don’t think so.”

“You _sound_ familiar, too. What’s your name?”

Martin suppressed a groan. _Well, it was a long shot from the start_. Time for a change in plans: if he couldn’t avoid notice, he’d have to scare the weasel into silence.

He stood up, turned, and faced the weasel. “Martin Greeneyes. I’d apologize for the lies if I gave a damn about what one of my sister’s sycophants thought of me, but seeing as I don’t, I’ll just have to hope that you’ll overlook it. And Gonff told it true. He didn’t escape, so much as get asked to bring me here so that I could see what was going on for myself. You have no business bullying any of these creatures, so I suggest that you scurry on back to Kotir before the next guard shift.” He shot the weasel a glare so venomous that the latter shrunk back. “And if you ever raise a paw against a child again, I’ll throw you down to that…thing my sister keeps in the basement. _Do I make myself clear?_ ”

Judging by the speed to which Scratt turned and booked it, he did. After he left Martin was suddenly aware that every single jaw in the house had dropped to the floor. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat.

“Right, um, sorry about that.” He turned back to the fireplace. “I’ll…just get this going so we can cook up breakfast.”

The meal was eaten in stunned silence. Finally, Gonff managed to work up the courage to speak. “By the fur, matey. I’m all for putting that lot in their place every now and again, but don’t you think that was a bit dangerous?”

“What’s he going to do? The idiot’s not going to try and pull something with me, lest my father get wind of it, and he’s not going to come here for revenge, lest _I_ get wind of it. And if he does, you have my word that I’ll put a stop to it.” He stabbed his food with a knife. “I meant what I said about feeding him to my sister’s pet.”

“What’s that?” One of the little ones asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

Ben cleared his throat. “It seems that yet again we owe you our thanks, Martin.”

“Not at all, seeing as I’m the reason why the weasel came down here in the first place.”

“Be that as it may, we still owe you for driving him off. Now, I still owe you an explanation for how things are down here.”

“Is now a good time? With the little ones here?” Ben’s wife asked.

“They’re living through it, Goody. It’s nothing they don’t already know.” Ben turned back to Martin. “I guess that I had better start back a few months ago.”

Ben talked for a good hour, and when he was done Martin had a good idea what was going on: The drought had started towards the end of the spring, the combination of little snowmelt from the mountains and less rain. For some time, they’d been able to get by on their stores, but shortly into the summer the Thousand-Eyes had swept up the majority of the crops and left to fight in the north. This happened at the worst possible time, as the summer heat wave wasn’t far behind, and as Tsarmina had been left in charge there was absolutely no-one present who would even bother to consider that maybe, just maybe, that would mean not taxing the farmers quite as much (“Excepting you, of course, but from what you and Gonff have said you were kept pretty much in the dark”), and as a result they were not able to coax enough from the ground to feed both themselves and the army, so up and down Mossflower everyone was running low on food.

“To be honest,” Ben concluded, “if things don’t change by this time next month we’ll be dropping dead left-and-right. He looked at Martin. “Is there anything you can do to help us?”

Martin thought about it. It had seemed so simple: just come down here, affirm that there was a problem, and then go back up and demand that the larder be opened. But now that he had a second to pause he realized how foolish that was. Tsarmina would never listen to him on this, he knew. Letting go a lowly mouse was one thing, but suggesting that the entire army tighten their belts for the good of the Woodlanders was another thing entirely.

But maybe if it wasn’t just him? “Who else is here from your leaders? I know that Bella’s at Salamandastron and Amber’s with my father, but is there anyone left?”

“Timballisto’s still here, up in his lands, but I don’t know about anyone else.”

“There’s Warthorn.” Goody suggested. “He’s gotten along well with the Thousand-Eyes since the battle of Salamandastron 7 years ago.”

Martin nodded in affirmation. “Good. It’s a start. Is there any way you could get them both here within the next few hours? The sooner we get this sorted, the better.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

***

True to their word Ben and Goody managed to get both Timballisto and the Skipper before dinner, and as such they were able to head out that evening. Their party consisted of Ben, Martin, Timballisto and Warthorn, while Goody and Gonff stayed at the Stickles’. Gonff had wanted to come along, but Ben had vetoed it saying that it wasn’t a good idea to show up at Tsarmina’s gates with _two_ cheeky mice, and he’d grudgingly obeyed.

The four of them reached the gates of Kotir right about the time of the sunset. Martin stood in front of the rest of them, took a deep breath, and sunk into his best lordly demeanor.

“Who stands outside the gates?” A sentry called out.

“It is I, Martin Greeneyes. I have spent the last day in Moss Town trying to assess the situation, and me and my compatriots here would have words with my sister.”

“Martin? That you?” It was a weasel named Scratch, one of the few left in Kotir with any sense. “Good on you, lad, going down there.”

“Can I speak with my sister or not?”

“Cool your paws, Martin, she’ll be out soon. She’s finishing up her supper.”

“Strike me rudder! The bitch is having an evening feast while we’re about to keel over.” Skipper grumbled, thankfully too quiet for anyone to hear.

Sure enough, within a couple minutes Tsarmina herself was glaring down at them from the ramparts. “What do you want, Martin?”

Timballisto stepped forwards. “My lady, we’re starving out here. If this drought keeps up, I fear that every Woodlander might perish.”

“And how is that my problem?”

Martin spoke again. “They’re _our_ people, sister. While we’ve been carrying on they’ve been suffering, suffering because you won’t reduce the food taxes.”

“Again, how is that my problem? Why should we have to eat less because of the weather?”

“Because as the rulers of Mossflower we swore that we would protect the Woodlanders in exchange for their fealty. We owe it to our vassals that they don’t waste away when there’s something we can do. And that means giving them back their food and lightening the taxes until this drought stops.”

Tsarmina burst out laughing. “Give them their food? You’ve been out in the sun too long.” She snorted. “Why should we give them what’s rightfully ours? We don’t ‘owe them’ anything, any more than ants are owed anything by their queen. We don’t rule because we ‘protect’ the Woodlanders, we rule them because we’re stronger.”

“Then what makes us any better than Greypaw or Vilu Daskar? What makes us any better than those vermin that tried to kill us when we were kids?”

“Simple: we won, and they didn’t.”

“My lady, please!” Ben fell to his knees. “I have four little children at home, and if things don’t change they’ll die! Please, we need food!”

Tsarmina was unmoved. “You’re still young, aren’t you, hedgepig? If your children die just have some more.”

“Tsarmina!” Martin was shocked. “They’re _children!_ ”

“So? They’re just hedgehogs.”

Martin realized that they were getting nowhere. Clearly, every creature in Mossflower could be skin and bones and she wouldn’t care so long as she could keep feasting. Still, he had to keep trying to make her see sense.

Someone else beat him to the punch. “Young lady, if your father could hear you…”

Everyone present whirled and immediately squinted into the blinding sun, out of which came Bella of Brockhall and Gingivere Greeneyes.

“Yeah, well, he can’t, can he, badger?” Not even the arrival of the badger mother herself had an effect on Tsarmina. “The way that I see it, what my lord father thinks doesn’t really matter.”

“But what about when he comes back?” Martin realized that Gingivere was positively trembling with rage. “What happens when he comes back and sees that Mossflower’s nothing more than a desert?”

“Simple: he’ll rage, and say he’s disappointed, and scold me. Nothing more, little brother, nothing more. You know how toothless he’s been these past seven years. Come in here, Gingivere. None of this concerns us. Let the rabble shout all they want.”

“How can you say that!?” Martin and Gingivere yelled at the same time.

“Because it’s true, and you know it is.”

“No.” Gingivere had stopped shouting, but his voice was simmering with a slow, deep anger. “I refuse to accept that.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Gingivere tensed, and Martin suddenly had a massive sense of foreboding. “I no longer recognize you as lady of Kotir.” He raised his voice. “Tsarmina, I, Gingivere Greeneyes, with Martin Greeneyes and Bella of Brockhall as my witnesses, do by my right as son of lord Verdauga Greeneyes hereby declare you an enemy of Mossflower!” Gingivere glared up at his sister. “You’re just scum, and you have no right to call yourself lady of anything.”

His voice was hard as ice. “I solemnly declare that it is the duty of any creature sworn to serve the Greeneyes family to remove you form Kotir and Mossflower.”


	22. Declaration of War

Mossflower was deathly quiet, and for good reason: Gingivere’s declaration crossed a line that was impossible to cross back; by declaring his sister to be a traitor and enemy of Mossflower he’d sown the seeds for war between those who backed him and those who backed Tsarmina. The Thousand-Eyes in particular would be split down the middle, depending on whether they valued the power Tsarmina would grant them or their oath to serve as protectors of the Woodlanders, and Martin knew that his sister would have no qualms about calling on outside groups in order to strengthen her own hand.

Martin looked over at his brother, who glared up at Tsarmina, defiant and angry. Then he looked at her, glaring back, astonished and, surprisingly, betrayed. Her ears were flattened back against her head and the hackles on her back were stiffer than Martin had ever seen them.

“ _What_ did you just say?” Every word was a growl deeper than the last.

Gingivere kept his nerve, for the moment. “I said that I hereby name you a traitor to Mossflower and an enemy of the Greeneyes family. Sister, you are no longer welcome here.”

She laughed, a high, mirthless laugh that sent chills down Martin’s spine. “Oh, really? Brave words from a cat with neither the soldiers nor the skill at arms to back them up.”

“It’s the duty of every beast in the Thousand-Eyes army to fight for their rightful lord, isn’t it?”

“And what do you think decides who they think fills that position?” Tsarmina gestured back into Kotir. “Why, the one who holds all the cards. I hold the castle, the larder, the weapons, everything, and thus, I hold the loyalty of the army. You have…what? A few guards that went with you and Bella? A bunch of peasants?”

“But…” Gingivere was starting to sound unsure.

“Cease this foolishness, brother.” Now Tsarmina’s voice was sugary-sweet. “You’re mad, I get that, but that’s no reason to be rash. Now apologize and come inside so we can talk. This is your last chance.”

“Don’t listen to her.” Martin hissed to Gingivere. “You spoke true. She’s starving Mossflower for her own gain and needs to be stopped. Don’t lose sight of that.”

“But what can we do?” Gingivere whispered back. “Tsarmina’s right – this isn’t a fight we can win on our own.”

“What are you two yammering on about?” Tsarmina asked. “I hope you’re not trying to come up with some inane battle plan?”

“Are you familiar with the story of Lord Brocktree, sister?” Martin’s words were meant as much to encourage his brother as they were to remind his sister of history.

“Boar’s father?” She scoffed. “What does a long-dead badger have anything to do with this?”

“I’ll take that as a no. It’s surprising, Tsarmina. I figured that since you’ve done nothing these past few weeks that maybe you would’ve found time to actually open a book, but I guess not.”

“Get to the point, Martin, before I lose my patience and pepper you with arrows.”

“I will, if you give me the chance to speak. I’ll keep it short, though. Wouldn’t want to tax your entire attention span.

“In the years before Lord Brocktree took power in Salamandastron, the mountain had seen so little war that the defenses were down to a few old done hares. As a result the mountain was attacked by a certain Ungatt Trunn, who I hope that you are at least somewhat aware of. Which you should be, seeing as he’s our uncle.

“But anyways, Ungatt took the mountain without much effort, killing the badger lord, and although some hares were able to escape they numbered only about forty. Surely, such a miniscule and weak force would have no hope of overthrowing the mighty wildcat and his Blue Hordes, no? But they did, Tsarmina, they did.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if one psychopathic wildcat can be dislodged from a fortress they have no right to rule, so can another.” Martin allowed his voice to drop until he was matching her growl from earlier. “Mark my words, Tsarmina. I _will_ see you removed from Kotir, even if it means killing you.”

“ _Shut. Your. Fucking. Mouth._ ” Every single hair on Tsarmina’s body was flared up. “ _Threaten me one more time and I’ll flay every inch of skin from your traitorous body._ ” She was spitting, Martin realized.

Woodlander and Thousand-Eye alike shrank back, but Martin stood strong. “You, kill me? Don’t make me laugh. I’m twice the swordsman you are, and you know it.” It was only half a bluff, thankfully. “Do you really think you can get your hands on me?” He shook his head. “Of course, that would require you to stop hiding behind the castle walls, and we _both_ know that you’re too cowardly to do so.”

That did it. “ _ARCHERS!_ ” Tsarmina shrieked. “ _NOCK YOUR ARROWS. I WANT TO SEE HIM DEAD!_ ”

“My lady!” Scratch gaped at her, horrified. “He’s your brother! Be reasonable!”

“Reasonable? REASONABLE?” She grabbed the weasel and slammed him against the parapet until his face was nothing but unrecognizable goo. “THAT _MISERABLE FURBRAIN_ THREATENED TO KILL ME AND YOU WANT ME TO BE _REASONABLE_?” She noticed that none of the other Thousand-Eyes had nocked their arrows either. “WHAT ARE YOU LOT WAITING FOR? MAKE HIM INTO A PINCUSHION OR YOU’LL END UP LIKE THE WEASEL!”

There was a flurry of activity as the terrified soldiers complied, raising their bows and firing on Tsarmina’s command. Martin just barely managed to dodge out of the way, and while they were reloading he dashed over to the rest of the Woodlanders.

“ _Brockhall!_ ” He hissed at them. “ _Go! I’ll get there!_ ”

There was no time to argue as another volley of arrows sang through the air. Every party in the disastrous negotiations immediately began melting into the trees, while Martin did his best to zig-zag around Kotir in order to draw the fire away. Then, seeing that they were all safe, he made a dash for the forest himself.

After he’d vanished into Mossflower Woods Tsarmina raised her hand, disgusted. “Hold your fire. He’s gone.” She was so disgusted that she wanted to hurl the lot of them off the wall. “That miserable show just earned you all half rations.” She turned away from the idiots and stormed away into the castle. _Dethrone ME? Ha. As if those Woodlanders would dare take up arms._ Still, there was a small pit in her stomach: with Gingivere leading them, the possibility that they could get some outside legitimacy had to be considered. And with Bella, the odds that they’d try and make it to Salamandastron were fairly high…

Tsarmina resolved that from now on every road westward from Mossflower would be watched at all times and any beast trying to cross without leave would be shot dead.

 

Once he was safely out of sight of the castle Martin leaned against a tree and started taking deep breaths. His legs were on fire after all that running, and he suddenly realized how exhausted he was. The only things he’d had to eat since last night were what little he’d been willing to take from the paltry offerings in the Stickle household, and he was feeling the effects. He felt half ready to collapse onto the ground.

_Keep it together, Martin_. He admonished himself. _This is what they’ve all been going through for weeks. You can survive one day_. Truth be told, though, he had no idea how they could do it: less than 24 hours removed from Kotir and its consistent stream of filling meals, and his stomach already felt like it was about to wither away. Whenever he met up with the rest of the Woodlanders, he’d have to ask them how in the blazes they coped.

Speaking of: how to actually get to them? _Where exactly IS Brockhall anyways_? Martin had never actually been there, having only heard about it from Bella, and as such he wasn’t exactly sure where to go. _Think, Martin, think._ Was it marked on one of the maps that his father had? He couldn’t remember – map reading had always somewhat bored him. Maybe he could figure out the general direction? How had Bella described it, again?

“ _I live in an oak older than my grandfather’s grandfather and taller than any other tree in Mossflower_. _Beneath it sits Brockhall, the ancestral home of the badgers, the most beautiful home in the world._ ”

Martin looked up at the tree he was leaning against. It was no slouch in the height department itself, and he imagined that if he could get to the top he could probably look out around the surrounding countryside rather easily. The only trouble was climbing it in his exhausted state.

Martin stepped away from the tree and took a closer look at it. The tree was tall, alright, at least sixty feet high. It was going to be _quite_ the climb. He took a deep breath and grit his teeth. _Better get it started while there’s still a bit of light, then_.

Free-climbing a birch tree was quite a bit harder than free-climbing Kotir, even leaving aside his exhaustion, but Martin pressed on. Thankfully the tree itself did provide some level of assistance – the branches were thick enough in some places that he could take a moment to rest on them, and partway up he was able to find an open spot in the bark where the sap bled through, and once he’d rubbed the sap into his fur he found that his grip was somewhat more secure. Even so, the climb took him double what he’d expected, and by the time he reached the top of the tree the sun had almost finished setting.

Martin looked to the east, deep into Mossflower woods, and soon enough spotted what he was looking for: a massive, 120-foot-tall Oak that could only be Brockhall. Apparently, Bella wasn’t joking when she said ‘largest tree in Mossflower.’ After taking a couple moments’ rest in order to stop his lungs from exploding, Martin started back downwards.

About halfway down the tree Martin stopped when he heard voices.

“…why are we searching for him, anyway? Let the mouse run off into the woods, I think.”

“Idiot! Didn’t you hear what he said to our lady? He’s plotting treason!”

It was a couple of Tsarmina’s toadies: that layabout from this morning Scratt, and the bootlicker-in-chief himself Cludd. Had it been only one of them, and had he been less exhausted, Martin would’ve seriously considered trying to piss on them or spit at the very least. Instead, he forced himself to wait until they’d passed and take the opportunity to eavesdrop.

“He can plot all he likes. It’s no concern of ours unless he marches up with an army at his back.”

“Which he could _get_ if we don’t find him.”

“From where? The Woodlanders? It’s not like he can go anywhere else and bring in some outside army.”

Now the two were almost out of earshot, so Martin had to strain to listen.

Cludd smacked Scratt over the head. “Only the west road’s closed, idiot! What if he slips out east or south?”

“Ain’t nothing there but bandits and squirrels.”

_Ah_ , Martin suddenly had an idea, _but to the north there’s father and half the army._

He waited for them to pass completely out of hearing range, then waited a few more minutes to make sure no-one else was coming, and then climbed down from the tree and dashed off eastwards.

 

The mood in Brockhall was tense – they’d all made it there alright, but it had been several hours and Martin had failed to show. Gonff had shown up about half an hour after the rest of them, raising hopes briefly, but this momentary cheer had long-since given way to dread.

Sitting around a table in the great hall, Timballisto was the first to speak into the candlelight the words they were all thinking. “Did they capture him?”

Gingivere shook his head. “They couldn’t have. Martin’s too smart for them. He just…doesn’t know the way here, or something’s keeping him.”

“How hard could it be to find a giant oak with a door in it?” Gonff asked. “Brockhall’s not exactly hard to miss.”

“It’s dark, isn’t it? He probably didn’t want to risk making his way here in the dark.”

“Your brother not taking a risk?” Bella gave the wildcat a little smile. “When have you ever known him to do _that_?”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

They all went silent. Then, a bit later, Timballisto broke the silence once more.

“I think we need to accept it: Martin isn’t coming. Either they captured him, or he lost his way in the woods. Either way, he’s lost to us for the moment.”

Gingivere looked up sharply. “No. He’ll be here soon.”

Not unkindly, Skipper placed a paw on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, my lord. It may be that your sister sent out a patrol, and what could one mouse do against the entire Thousand-Eye army?”

Gingivere swept the paw off his shoulder and stood up. “If you think that my brother can be stopped by a few creatures carrying spears or a bit of darkness, you don’t know him very well.” He turned away from all the assembled Woodlanders, suddenly unable to stand their company. “I’m going to wait for him.”

The night was surprisingly cool underneath the forest canopy, and there was a light breeze coming from the east. All in all, it would’ve been quite pleasant if it weren’t for the circumstances. Where was Martin? Gingivere didn’t get it – what on earth was keeping him?

After a few minutes the firelight from the torches by Brockhall’s door began playing tricks on the wildcat, and every shadow looked like Martin or Tsarmina or father. His family.

The same family that he’d just ripped apart. Try as he might to tell himself that he’d done the right thing, that Tsarmina needed to go for the benefit of Mossflower, the fact remained that Gingivere’s words had opened a rift that they would be hard-pressed to heal, if they could heal it at all. He thought of his sister’s face when he’d pronounced her a traitor, the culmination of a rage that had been growing since as far back as that cave in Salamandastron. _How will father react?_ He worried about that. What if he took _her_ side and exiled him and Martin? _Ah, but you’ll be the only one exiled_ , a voice whispered to him, _he’s gone, either lost in the woods or chained in the dungeon. Because of you_.

Gingivere shook his head. It couldn’t be. Any minute now, his brother would step into the firelight.

Any minute now…

The minutes passed, first singularly and then in tens, and Gingivere remained alone.

Until he wasn’t, and Martin stepped into view, exhausted. Upon seeing his brother the mouse immediately broke into a grin.

“Sorry for the delay. This place was hard to find and I kept getting turned around in Mossflower Woods. I’m guessing you’ve all been waiting a while?”

Gingivere started towards him. “Martin, you…” he broke into a run. “you…COMPLETE SON OF A BITCH!” Upon reaching his brother Gingivere punched the mouse with a blow strong enough to send him flying. “I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU FOR _FOUR BLOODY HOURS!_ ”

Martin sat up, rubbing his cheek. “Hey, I didn’t exactly have the benefit of a guide, now did I?” He would have gone on but Gingivere descended on him with a hug before he could. Martin let it slide for a few moments, patting his brother on the shoulder all the while, before attempting to disengage.

After he’d managed to extricate himself from the arms of a wildcat twice his size, Martin gave one more apology. “Look, Gingivere. I’m really sorry for making you worry. I promise you that I got here as fast as I could.” His face immediately grew more serious. “Is everyone else still up? We need to start planning as soon as we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the phrase 'son of a bitch' was actually used by Shakespeare in two separate plays, King Lear and Troilus and Cressida.


	23. North

_So this is Brockhall_ , Martin thought as Gingivere led him to the audience chamber. It certainly lived up to its reputation: the entire dwelling had been less built _out_ of the oak tree as built _into_ it, with everything from the support beams to the architecture to the furniture carved out of still-living wood. It may not have had the raw size of Kotir, but the halls had their own beauty nonetheless. Had Martin the time, he would have loved to get a full tour and see every nook and cranny.

Unfortunately, he had information to share, and when Gingivere finally brought him to the rest of the group he launched into an explanation without so much as a moment’s hesitation.

“I’m sorry for my tardiness, but I have news that you all must know _immediately_ : Tsarmina’s closed all the roads west of here, and from what I can tell she intends to watch them like a hawk. Knowing her, she’s probably set out orders to shoot any traveler in or out of Mossflower on sight.”

“Where did you hear this?” Bella asked.

“From Cludd. I overheard him patrolling.”

“And you’re sure that he didn’t know you where there? Your information seems awfully convenient for something you just happened to overhear. It could be some sort of trick devised to keep us from reaching out to my father.”

“Cludd’s too thick to have noticed me, and besides, west is really the only way we would normally consider going. There’s nothing in any other direction.”

“So we’re trapped here?” Gonff looked at him.

“Almost. We’ve only one option – strike north. If we can find my father, we can use his half of the Thousand-Eye Army to defeat any beast too obstinate to surrender to their actual lord.”

Skipper frowned. “That’s a risk, though, isn’t it? If you’ve cottoned this out, most like she has as well. I don’t think we can outspeed her.”

“Where else can we turn to? My father has the only army we have any chance of recruiting.”

“I know, lad. I just fear it may be impossible to get to him without crossing your sister’s partisans.”

All those gathered grew quiet, trying to think of a solution. It was a difficult problem: how to make sure that the roads north were open?

Timballisto was the first to come to a solution. “Skipper, how many fighting otters do you have on paw?”

“Right now? I’d say thirty.”

“And I have my household guard, so there’s another twenty mice. Are any of Amber’s lot still here?”

“Some.” Bella replied. “But not enough to overwhelm a large group of Thousand-Eyes, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

The mouse shook his head. “We don’t have to overwhelm them. Just keep them occupied long enough for whoever we’re sending to old Verdauga to slip out of Mossflower. Then, we can melt away into the woods undetected.”

“You’d go to war for us?” Gingivere was flattered. “That’s awfully brave of you.”

“If we don’t, we’ll die anyways of starvation. Best risk our lives for something that has meaning. But what say all of you? This is a risky plan.”

Skipper nodded. “Aye, ‘tis. But I don’t see any other way that we can ship the messengers out without detection.”

“I agree as well.” Bella closed her eyes. “I hate the idea of bloodshed, but Skipper’s right. There’s no other way.”

“Right, then.” Timballisto turned to Gingivere and Martin. “My lords, I’ll be frank with you. This path is a dangerous one, and bloody besides. If we go through with this, creatures that you grew up with and may have befriended could die. We’re all willing to risk _our_ lives, but everyone in Kotir will have those same risks forced upon them whether they like it or not.”

The two brothers looked at each other. “It’s a heavy price, aye, but a necessary one.” Martin spoke for both of them. “If it’s the only way to end our sister’s tyranny, we’ll accept any blood that is lain at our feet.”

“Are you sure?”

Now Gingivere spoke. “We are. Being a lord means making hard decisions, and sometimes it means sacrificing some for the good of all, even if those _some_ may be innocent of any wrongdoing.”

Save Gonff, all the Woodlanders looked at each-other with odd expressions before looking away. Martin noticed, but decided not to say anything. Instead, he proceeded to the next problem. “So who should we send to my father, then? Obviously, Skipper and Timballisto can’t leave Mossflower if their soldiers are going on the attack.”

“Well, you and Gingivere, for one, since you’re the ones most like to get him to listen.” Gonff had a sardonic grin on his face. “After all, seeing as we’ve gone and turned this into the most dramatic case of ‘tattling to the parent’ in recorded history, it makes sense to send both of you.” He hopped out of his seat. “And since neither of you look like the wilderness types, I’ll come along so that you don’t starve to death in the woods. Assuming I have your lordly permissions, of course.”

“Hang on.” Bella protested. “We’re not talking about a trip through the woods, Gonff. To head north would mean heading into lands you’ve never seen before.”

“I know, Bella, but _someone_ has to keep those two safe.”

She sighed. “Very well, then…” The badger steeled herself. “I shall come as well.”

They all stared at her. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” Martin couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“I have a life beyond you, you know. And some of that has involved wandering the world. Yes, including northwards.”

“You just want to keep us out of trouble, don’t you?”

“Gonff, we’re well beyond that, although I won’t deny that it would do you all good to have someone older and wiser with you. My concern is more that you need my experience with the land and its dangers.”

“Very well, then.” Gingivere interjected before either of the mice could speak. “Bella, if you wih to come along, I for one would welcome your company.” He looked around at all gathered. “It’s settled, then. While Timballisto and Skipper knock some Kotir heads, we sneak northwards for father and the rest of the Thousand-Eye Army.”

They all spoke in affirmtion. Problems that some may have had with who did what, it would have to do.

***

Everyone separated for the night shortly afterwards. Bella had been generous enough to provide her bed for Martin and Gingivere, but after a few minutes of tossing and turning Martin realized that the odds of him getting any sleep that night were low. So, in order to spare his brother the irritation of a restless bedmate, the mouse decided to head out and explore the rest of Brockhall.

He found Gonff in the great hall, lightly playing a flute. He got through a couple stanzas of a song, frowned, and shook his head. Then, instead of playing again, he started singing.

_You know there’s something that’s hidden within,_

_When you close your eyes you can’t help but to think._

_Tell you the truth, I don’t know what to say,_

_But we have no home, no real place to stay._

“Isn’t that from a play?” Martin asked.

Gonff jumped a bit. “By the fur, matey, don’t sneak up on me like that! But yeah, it’s from one I saw when I was little.”

“Thought so. What was it called? Kings something, right?” The players had visited Mossflower when he was ten, Martin remembered. He’d loved it so much that he’d spent the next two weeks running around play-acting it with Gingivere, and even Tsarmina had had a good time. _Come to think of it, that might have been the last time we were doing something other than tearing at each other’s throats_.

“Can’t help you there. I’m just trying to figure out how to play it on my flute. I thought it fit what we’re about to do tomorrow, and since I can’t sleep I wanted to see if I could put the words to notes.” Gonff stowed his flute in its container. “How about you? What’re you doing up and about?”

“I can’t sleep either. I’m too nervous.” Martin sat in a chair opposite the other mouse. “We’re _at war_ , Gonff.”

“If it helps, just think of it how I said: this is just the most dramatic example of “I’m telling on you to mum/dad” in history.”

Martin had to laugh at that. “I hope my father doesn’t see it that way. I’d hate to think that this’ll just end with someone getting sent to bed without their supper.”

“Well, your sister _could_ stand to lose a few pounds.” Gonff looked into the fire. “Will it bother you? If Tsarmina gets exiled or killed, I mean.”

Martin had been thinking about that. “Honestly? It will.” He sighed. “As cruel as she is, she’s still my sister.” He looked at the fire as well and noticed that the flames were the same color as Tsarmina’s fur. “I still love her.” He added, almost too quiet to hear. He looked up sharply. “Gonff, do you know what it’s like to love someone who hates you?”

“I…can’t say I do.”

“It’s confusing. I _know_ she needs to leave Mossflower if anything is to change, and that she’s never so much as given me the time of day, but still, a part of me wishes that things could have been different. Part of me wonders if there’s something I could have done.” He buried his head in his paws, but the words kept spilling out. “I keep making a mess of everything I do, don’t I? I’ve spent thirteen years with her, and I still can’t so much as hold a conversation with Tsarmina that doesn’t end in one of us threatening to kill the other. And there’s you – all you wanted was to get a bit of food for your family, and I turned it into a bloody war.”

Gonff didn’t really know what to say to that. Just saying ‘we all make mistakes’ didn’t quite seem to fit with the scenario, and there really wasn’t any point in trying to convince him that Tsarmina wasn’t the sort of creature that was all that taken with the idea of sibling bonds. In the end, all he could say (somewhat lamely, in his opinion) was “I guess you just have to keep moving forwards. Like that play said, ‘A king moves forward, always. Accepting the consequences, and never looking back.’ I think it came from there, at least.”

“Yeah, it did.” Martin looked at his friend. “You know, Gonff, you always have a way of cheering someone up.” He stood up. “See you tomorrow.”

After Martin left, Gonff turned back to the fire and sung a bit more.

_A house is not home, as our hope fades away…_

***

They sat north of Kotir, waiting for a signal. They had no idea what that signal would be, save that Bella had said it would be unmistakable. Most like, Martin figured, she had no idea either. Whatever it was, all they could do was wait. Even when the guards in front of the north road hurried off, the four of them stood still. Were they leaving because of the Woodlanders, or was it a normal guard change? It was impossible to know for sure, so they waited.

It soon became evident that it was the former, as no sooner had the Thousand-Eyes run out of site when a robin winged its way up towards where the four of them were hiding.

Bella emerged from the undergrowth and hailed him down. “Chibb! We’re over here!”

“Bella! It’s started! Timballisto and Skipper assaulted Kotir’s west gate and are falling back to the South Stream!” The robin looked around until he saw Gingivere. “You, cat! They promised me that I’d get to pick over your larder for chestnuts as a reward! I’m holding you to that!” Then, without so much as a word to anyone else, he winged off.

“Fine, whatever, you impudent little snot.” Gingivere mumbled at Chibb’s retreating figure.

The four travelers crept out of the undergrowth. The road seemed clear, but there was no telling how long it would remain that way, so they took off as fast as they good and hoped for the best.

It wasn’t long before they were seen. “Oi! You lot, wait a moment!”

They all froze. Martin’s paw dropped to the dagger Timballisto had given him before the mouse turned to face the new arrival.

It was Whegg. The rat marched towards them, carrying a sword that looked strangely familiar. Martin squinted at it. The sword had a ragged pommel to be sure, inlaid with nothing but a simple red stone; nothing like the ornate swords that his father had made for himself or his children, and yet Martin was still sure that he’d seen it somewhere before.

The rat stopped in front of Martin. “You’re going after lord Verdauga, correct?”

Martin nodded. “We are. Have you come to stop us?”

Whegg shook his head. “No. I think you’re being an idiot, my lord, running off like this, with just the four of you but I won’t stand in your way if it means he might return.”

“Then why are you here?”

Whegg held out the sword. “I came to give you this. It was your father’s.”

Martin eyed it, confused. “Isn’t this a little small for a wildcat?”

“It wasn’t lord Verdauga’s It was your _other_ father’s.”

“ _What?_ ” Martin took the sword and immediately knew that Whegg was telling the truth. The sword’s weight, balance, length, everything – this was a sword made for a mouse. Tears started welling up in his eyes. _This was Luke the Warrior’s. It was my father’s_. To hold something of his, something _tangible_ …

_My father held this, once. Maybe he even showed it to me when I was a babe._

He looked at Whegg. There were no words to express his gratitude towards the rat, but he had to try. “My friend, if we both survive this, I’ll repay you a thousandfold. Will you come with us?”

The rat shook his head. “I can’t. If I leave, there won’t be anyone left who can tell your friends how the Thousand-Eyes fight.”

“You have our thanks.” Gingivere walked over to them and stepped down. “I vow that none of us will forget this.”

“Make sure you don’t, little lords.” Whegg chuckled. “Perhaps you could have your father make me a captain? ‘Captain Whegg’ has a nice ring to it.” He bounded back the way he came, errand finished.

Then the four travelers were off again, across the dusty plains, heading north into the unknown lands where they would, with a little luck, find the means to save Mossflower.


	24. Lineages

Gonff was in the belly of Kotir again. At least, he thought it was – where else could be so cold and dark? But something was off. As far as he knew, there was no place in Kotir with a massive hallway of pitch-black stone, nor was there anywhere that the torches were somehow able to light themselves and snuff themselves in perfect harmony to his movements. _Nowhere to go but forwards_ , Gonff thought, so forwards he went. The black hall stretched on and on in front of him, endless, but he never turned back. Something told him that only death was behind.

Some ways down the hall he came across a pair of shapeless wraiths. The moment the torch nearest to them flared to life, they turned to him. “ _Oh, Gonff_.” One of them whispered. “ _My boy. My brave, foolish boy._ ”

“Who are you?” Gonff asked. The voice sounded like Ben Stickle, but at the same time _un_ like him.

“ _He doesn’t know us._ ” The other wraith was sad. “ _How could he, when the last time he saw us was when he was two?_ ”

“ _He ought to have remembered._ ” The first wraith was angry. “ _You ought to remember us, but you’ve cast us aside._ ”

“I haven’t!” Gonff protested. “I just don’t remember your faces, is all.”

“ _LIAR! You discarded us the moment another took you in. It’s your way, isn’t it? To discard all who hold you back? To betray everyone who cares about you for your own benefit?_ ”

“ _Oh, Gonff._ ” Somehow, the mouse could tell that she was weeping. “ _It’s not your fault. For some it’s in their nature to run. To care about none but themselves._ ”

“I’m _not_ running, though. If we can find Martin’s father and bring him back to Mossflower, he can…” _Why am I talking about this all of a sudden?_

“…you presume too much, mouse.” It was a third voice, from behind this time. Gonff whirled and came face-to-face with lady Tsarmina. “Why would my father take the side of a runt like you?”

“ _He won’t._ ” The two wraiths spoke in unison. “ _He won’t care._ ”

“That’s right!” Tsarmina laughed a high, cruel laugh. “You should have stayed in Mossflower, for now you _will_ die!” She kept laughing, and laughing, and all of a sudden, the torches in the hall started spewing their fire directly out at him. Gonff yelled and tried to avoid the flames, but it was too much and soon he was burning.

Tsarmina’s voice echoed. “Burn! Burn! Just like Mossflower!”

 

Gonff woke with a start, breathing heavily. Instead of the burning heat he’d felt moments before, now he just felt the coolness of a summer night

_It was all a dream_ , he told himself, _not even Tsarmina Greeneyes has magic torches._ He looked around. Instead of a black hallway he saw instead a canopy of leaves occasionally broke up by starlight, and below him he felt not stone but hard earth beneath the relative softness of his bedroll. _None of that was real. You’re fine._

Even so, his mind kept wandering back to the dream. Those wraiths had been his mother and father, he was sure of it. _Were they right? Am I betraying everyone back in Mossflower?_ Trying to dislodge Tsarmina they may be, but by joining the Greeneyes brothers in their journey north Gonff had more or less stamped a giant marker on his head saying “I SUPPORT THE GREENEYES FAMILY.” Did that make him a traitor to everyone starving under the wildcat regime? Restless, Gonff tossed his bedroll aside and stood up, intending to relieve whoever was currently on watch.

It turned out to be Gingivere. “Is everything alright?” The wildcat frowned when he saw the mouse. “I thought I was on watch for another couple hours.”

“Can’t sleep. You can go take a kip if you want.”

“You were snoring just fine when I woke up.”

Gonff had no reply to that. Instead, he just sat down next to the wildcat and stared off into the blackness. _Not so different from that hallway, now that I think about it._

Maybe that was what made him speak. “Gingivere, do you remember your mother?”

“Come again?”

“Martin said that she passed away in that great sickness a decade ago. Mine did as well, but I was so young that I can’t even recall their faces.”

“That’s a bit of a personal question, isn’t it?”

“Sorry.”

Gingivere sighed. “I…don’t remember her, actually. My mother, that is. And the funny thing is, I don’t really miss her, either. How can I miss who I never knew?” He looked down at Gonff, curious. “Where did that come from, anyways?”

Gonff turned away. “Nowhere. I was just thinking too much.”

They sat for a couple of moments, listening to the wind rustling the trees.

“Thank you, by the way.” This time Gingivere was the one who spoke first.

“For what?”

“For my brother. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but I can tell that he gets lonely a lot. The number of creatures near our own age that either of us can actually interact with can be counted on one paw, and between that and the fact that he feels like he’s a bit of an outsider, well, you’re honestly his first real friend.”

“Oh.” Truth be told, Gonff still wasn’t sure that he _did_ consider Martin his friend. He liked the mouse enough, alright, but there was still the fact that since he’d first met the mouse Gonff had been imprisoned below Kotir, almost lost his tongue, turned Mossflower into a warzone, and embarked on a long journey northwards to try and salvage something out of the situation. And, try as he might to convince himself that things were working out for the best or reassure Martin that there was no need for guilt, Gonff was still a bit bitter that Martin had managed to turn his attempt to feed innocent creatures into a full-scale military conflict.

This bitterness must have shown, evidently. “Whatever my brother’s done that you’re stewing over, I can assure you that he feels twice as guilty.”

“How…?”

“I’m good at reading creatures. Father always says that what we say with our bodies is often more important than what we say with our mouths. A couple years ago he made us stare at creatures coming to speak with him for hours on end so we could hone the skill. I’m fairly sure that my sister managed to get a shrew to piss himself, now that I think about it.”

“Well, that’s…something.” Gonff really wasn’t sure how to respond to that. _It seems like that happens quite a bit around this lot, honestly._ “I, uh, should probably go get some sleep. G’night, my lord.”

“Just Gingivere’s fine.”

Gonff turned, but didn’t even manage to get ten steps before Gingivere called back out to him.

“Gonff?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t feel like you’re abandoning the Woodlanders or betraying them. Everyone fighting back there is doing so in order to give us the best chance of driving my sister out for good. They’re counting on all of us, you included. Trust me – you’re no coward, nor are you a traitor.”

“Right, um, matey? Could you stop with that? You reading all my thoughts’s a bit creepy.”

“Will do.” Gingivere had to suppress a snort.

***

They all woke with the arrival of the sun, delaying the day’s march just long enough to the two mice to eat an apple each while the wildcat and badger helped themselves to some trout. Then bellies full, the four travelers resumed their journey north. A short while into their march they came across a wide river, stretching which was a bridge of stone inlaid with carvings of a great oak tree.

Bella explained that the bridge had once marked the northernmost extent of Mossflower Country. “Back in the days of my grandfather’s grandfather, this neck of the River Moss marked the spot of the last great battle between the badgers of Brockhall and the hordes of vermin wandering down from the north. After the battle, lord Greycut built this bridge and spent the next eighteen days storming forts up and down the forests as far west as the coast.”

“If this is the edge of Mossflower Country, why isn’t any of this on our father’s maps?” Gonff asked.

“My grandfather, lord Stonepaw, felt as though these lands were too far removed from Brockhall to be properly maintained. In the first year of his rule he pulled back from here and all the places he felt his borders were overextended. There are probably a _lot_ of stone ruins left from that time, if you know where to look.”

“The bridge must have been a sight to behold, back when it was manned.”

“That it was, Martin, that it was.” Bella closed her eyes and began singing a slow, sad tune.

_All is well,_

_Rest your head,_

_Hear the bell_

_All Vermin dread._

_For when it tolls_

_Across the wood,_

_The badgers march_

_And fight for good!_

_The river runs,_

_And so do they_

_All the ones_

_Who ruin our day._

“It was an old lullaby my father and mother sang to me. It must have spoken of this spot. Bella opened her eyes and looked around. “I wonder if there was a bell anywhere?”

Gonff rolled his eyes. “If there was, let’s do ourselves a favor and let it lie wherever it is. I would hate to carry the thing all the way north and back.”

Gingivere remained by the carvings while the other three started across the bridge, staring at them and wondering what sort of place Mossflower was back in the days of Bella’s forbearers. _However it was, I vow that when I’m lord we will equal it and build a country where all can live in peace and vermin dare not tread._ They were leaving him behind, so Gingivere shook himself back into focus and took off after them.

***

They made camp along the shores of a decently-sized lake, one that Gonff promptly dubbed “Lake Wet-Blue-and-Fishy”, a name that the rest of them decided automatically saddled him with watch duties for most of the night. That being said the ‘fishy’ part of the name turned out to be rather apt, and as a result dinner consisted of carp fillet sprinkled with seasoning made from ginger cloves Bella had gathered from around the lakeshore. Afterwards, Martin and Gonff decamped to the lakeside for some sparring and reading lessons as had been their custom the past few days while Gingivere cleaned up after them all and smothered the ashes from the fire.

Once the two mice were finished Martin wandered back up to their campsite, where he found Bella staring out at the water from atop a rock.

“Have you been up this way before?” He was curious to know just how far her wanderings had taken her.

“Just once, years ago when I came with my father. We stopped at this area called Crows Pine Grove some ways northwest of this place, but I distinctly remember us resting here for a day or two. Father caught a sturgeon so big that we feasted on caviar for days.” The badger smiled at the memory. “He dubbed it ‘a feast fit for a princess’ and said that we were lucky that there was one present to make it that in truth.”

“That must have been a wonderful.” The mouse sighed. “I wish our father would do something for us like that.” He turned to the badger. “He’s just so…distant. I know he’s busy, but he wasn’t always this aloof, I _know_ it. Ever since we got back from Salamandastron it was like he put up some sort of wall between him and the three of us.” Martin quieted for a moment and thought. “What happened there, Bella? I need to know.”

The badger tried to ignore the sudden tightness in her chest.“It’s not my place to tell you. Your father’s demons are his, not mine, and so is the right to speak of them.”

“So something _did_ happen I’d wondered.” Martin got to his feet. “Bella, _please_. I need to know, and my father won’t tell me. He refuses to speak of the battle altogether. I know that whatever happened cut him deep, but still, if I can know what it is maybe I can help him.”

Bella looked him square in the face. “Martin, you have a good heart, but it’s not that simple. If I tell you what happened, it might horrify you.”

“Bella, I live with a sister whose response to hearing of children dying is that their parents should just have some more to replace them. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

_Children dying, huh?_ It was an ironic thing for Martin to bring up, considering, but for some reason it gave Bella the push she needed to start talking.

So talk she did. She told Martin of everything, from how Verdauga’s panicked reaction to the idea that his children might be in danger played right into the hands of Greypaw the Bloody and Vilu Daskar to how the vermin had assaulted the gates with a battering ram pushed by two dozen slave children.

She paused there. “Martin, I am about to tell you of a decision that your father made, one that I can guess is probably as responsible for what you have seen as any one thing can be. But before then, I must tell you: what your father did was something out of a nightmare. Are you sure you want to know? Truly? What is known cannot be un-known.”

Martin just nodded.

“Very well, then. I shall tell you.

“Your father had to make a choice: it was either destroy the battering ram, or let it break into the mountain unopposed. Had he done the latter, Salamandastron would have fallen that day. So he chose the former, but there was no way for either him or my father to get the troops necessary for such an action. Their only recourse was to use the one defense available to them at that moment: kegs of boiling oil.”

The world swooped out from under Martin. “No. He wouldn’t. There’s no way my father would order that.”

“He did. The freedom of Salamandastron was preserved by the sacrifice of children. _That_ is why your father may have grown distant; whenever he looked at any of his own children, he may have been forcibly reminded of the ones he was forced to have killed. Particularly the child of his that most closely resembled them.”

“So what you’re saying is…” Martin whirled around. “I have to go.” He ran, faster than he ever had in his life, ignoring Bella’s frantic calls after him until the darkness of the forest swallowed him up. He needed to be alone.


	25. Siblings

He ran. Away from Bella and her words, away from Gingivere, away from Gonff, away from everything. _That’s your way, isn’t it, father? If something’s too hard or painful, you flee._ It explained so much: not just the aloofness of the past few years, but also why he’d decided that the winter after losing his wife would be the perfect time to drag the entire army out on a disastrous expedition.

But, at the same time, could Martin really blame his father? _He murdered children in one of the cruelest ways imaginable._ They must have screamed, he realized, when the oil hit them. _How could he order that?_

Part of him still wanted to deny it, insisting that there was no way that the order could have come from his father, that it must have been some mistake or some lower-level scum like Cludd taking the initiative on his own. The better part of him knew that this was foolish. _Why else would he hide it from us?_ The father Martin knew would likely have used such a breach in protocol as an illustration in the necessity for a clear chain of command, not swept it under the rug. _So he did order it. He must have._

Verdauga Greeneyes might have made a habit of avoiding the harsh reality, but Martin Greeneyes had vowed to face it head-on. And the first thing that needed addressing: the fact that part of him was, horribly, _relieved_ to find out his father’s distance stemmed from dead children and not something that his fault. _By the fur, what is WRONG with me?_

Exhausted, he stopped running and collapsed against a tree. He looked upwards, where he noticed that the trees had formed a large enough break that he had a clear view at the constellations above. Ironically enough, considering he’d just learned his family’s dark secret, it was the one named for a pair of brothers. For a moment he wondered if that was an omen of some sort, then admonished himself. _You are a fool, Martin Greeneyes. Nothing can tell the future_.

Greeneyes. Even thinking the name left a bad taste in his mouth, like there was something wrong with him using it. “Well,” he mumbled, “at least for once it’s not because of me worrying that I don’t deserve to be called it.” _That_ feeling had still persisted plenty over the years, despite what his father had told him back when he was seven, but now it seemed to be gone for good. _Maybe because instead of wondering whether I have the right to be a Greeneyes I’m wondering whether I WANT to be one._

But then, if he wasn’t a Greeneyes, then what? Martin’s gaze fell to his blood father’s sword; in all the commotion, he’d never gotten around to remove it. _Who should I look to – the father I never knew, or the one who dropped burning oil on innocents younger than his own sons?_ He closed his eyes and lost himself in thought, trying to come up with an answer.

Apparently, he lost himself in sleep as well, for suddenly someone was tapping his shoulder. Martin’s eyes flew open and his hand dropped to the sword hilt, but it was only Gingivere.

His brother – Gingivere _was_ still his brother, surely, regardless of his feelings towards lord Verdauga, he decided in that moment – had a sick look on his face. “Bella told me about what our father did. You don’t think she was lying, do you?”

Martin shook his head. “It explains too much to be false.”

Gingivere looked like he was about to throw up. “How…”

“I don’t know. I can’t even begin to try to imagine.”

Gingivere took a seat next to him. “I can’t believe it. All this time I thought our father truly a great creature, someone to aspire to be like, but to think that he – I don’t even know what to say.”

“Well, at least now we know where Tsarmina got the idea to condone child murder.” It was half a joke, but neither of them found it funny. Martin turned away from his brother. “The worst part of all this is, part of me is _relieved_ now that I know about what he did.”

Martin felt a small rush of wind indicating that his brother had stood up. “ _What?_ ” He sounded horrified.

“It’s wrong, I know. But all this time, I thought the reason why our father seemed to be holding me at arm’s length was because of something I was doing wrong. And for someone who’s always worried about fitting in with the rest of his family, to know that it _wasn’t_ my fault is like a weight lifted off my chest.”

A _thump_ against his back told him that Gingivere had sat back down, this time so that they were sitting back-to-back. _Just like the stars_.

“I hope you know how terrible that sounds.” Gingivere sighed. “You know, I wish you’d told me.”

“Told you what? I only learned about this a few minutes before you did.”

“I was talking about you worrying about whether or not you were family, you dolt.” Gingivere’s voice sounded a bit choked up. “You’ve always been my brother. Blood or no.”

“Now you just sound like father. He said the same thing back when we were little.” _Maybe he wasn’t ALL bad_. Martin suddenly remembered something else – what was probably his first memory: him playing with his father, who kept tossing him up in the air, the two of them laughing all the while. _I couldn’t have been much older than a babe_.

Maybe it was that memory that prodded him into speaking again. “You know, as horrible as this is, it doesn’t change the fact that we grew up loved, does it?”

“I suppose not.” Gingivere shook his head. “Still, to think that he would…” He stood up again. “Well, there’s nothing to gain by thinking ourselves in circles. We’ll just have to ask him about it when we reach the army. Until then, at least we have each other.”

That they did. Gingivere started back towards camp, but Martin stayed behind, wishing to be alone for a bit longer. Once he was by himself once again, the mouse drew his blood father’s sword from its sheath.

“Father?” He whispered, whether to Verdauga or Luke the Warrior he wasn’t sure. “What would _you_ do if you found out that someone you loved did something more horrible than you could have imagined?”

The sword didn’t answer, and all Martin saw in the starlight was the reflection of a lone, confused mouse. He looked at his reflection for a bit, sighed, and sheathed the sword once more. As his brother had said, there was no use thinking in circles.

It was slow going back to camp; night had fully set in since his mad dash outwards and lacking the feline night vision of the rest of his family Martin was forced to slowly pick his way back through the bushes and over the stones he’d somehow managed to completely miss earlier. Seeing what he’d barreled through, Martin decided that it was a small miracle he was still in one piece. Eventually, though, he stumbled out of the woods and back into the clearing where they’d set up for the night.

Which was now completely empty save for a smoking firepit and a collapsed tent.

_Oh, no…_

Martin stopped in his tracks and dropped into an alert stance. Then, hand on the sword hilt, he edged forwards, some instinct telling him not to call out for any of the others. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way over to the firepit and, drawing his sword once again, began to poke for some embers. He found some and wasted no time trying to coax the fire back into existence.

Having made a torch, Martin edged over to the tent. There were pawprints all over the ground in front of it, some badger, some cat, some mouse. These were all less-than-helpful, as they could have been made any time between their arrival and now.

More helpful were the prints slightly eastward, which were definitely from some type of mustelid, most likely either a stoat or a weasel. There were more creatures present, too: rat prints, other mustelids, even a fox, like as not.

He bent down and examined the dirt. Signs of a scuffle: evidently someone – Gonff, most likely – had tried to put up a fight. But they had failed, and suddenly the three tracks created by his companions all started pointing in the same direction. _They’ve been captured_. Martin started forwards and stopped almost immediately. Sitting in the grass, so small and crumpled as to almost be missed completely, was a piece of paper. Martin picked it up, uncrumpled it, and held it up to the torchlight. There was one word, written almost too shakily to even be legible: _slavers_.

White-hot with rage, Martin threw the piece of paper into the torch and started running westwards. Lord Verdauga, and Mossflower, would have to wait. He had slavers to catch.

***

Miles to the south, back in Kotir, Tsarmina was brooding. Three days in and they’d failed to capture so much as a single peasant. It was almost as though they knew every single tactic and stratagem of the Thousand-Eyes, but that was impossible. They were Woodlanders, after all, too stupid for such high concepts. _Then how?_ She stood up, realizing the answer, and threw her wine cup onto the floor.

“Is everything alright, milady?” It was her attendant for the night, a rat named Brogg that was almost as stupid as the little furball. He was loyal, though; Tsarmina suspected she was half a deity in his eyes.

“No, I merely decided to ruin a perfectly good cup and waste perfectly good wine for the thrill of it.” She rolled her eyes. “Of _course_ something’s wrong, fool.” He just stared at her, unable to think of what to say next. “What are you staring at me for? Summon captain Cludd at once!”

“Yes, ma’am!” He saluted and scampered off, leaving her to lament the sorry state of the creatures under her command. _No wonder they can’t even stop a few squirrels and mice_.

Cludd shambled in a few minutes later, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Milady _does_ realize that it’s already midnight, doesn’t she? What exactly is so important?”

“Mind your tongue before I remove it, weasel.” Tsarmina poured a cup of wine for herself and one for him before sitting in her armchair. She gestured towards the one facing her. “Sit. I have to talk to you.”

He did so, suspicious and confused all the while. “What does milady require of me?”

“It has come to my attention that we have a traitor in the ranks. One of our own has been feeding information to the rebels, I fear.”

Cludd was silent. _By the claw,_ Tsarmina realized, _he already knows_. When he finally spoke, his words were slow and careful. “I…I had suspected as such. There’s one rat, by the name of Whegg, who vanished the same day the traitors first made their attack.”

_Where have I heard that name before?_  It sounded familiar, somehow. “And _why_ wasn’t I informed of this?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure, and…” __

She flicked her hand irritably. “No matter. Tell me all you can about this rat.”

“He’s always been rather fond of cheek, but old Ashleg has always let that slide because of his skills. He’s quite clever, as well, though I’ve never liked him.”

“What else?” There was something more, Tsarmina sensed, something Cludd was reluctant to share.

Whatever it was, the thought of saying it clearly got to Cludd by how white he’d gone. “Ah…um…I’m not sure if I should say, but…”

“Spill it, imbecile. I didn’t summon you so that you could stutter over every single word.”

Cludd took a deep gulp and tried to calm himself. “Very well, if milady really wants to know…” He exhaled, wincing as he did so. “Whegg has always been fond of your – of Martin. And of that squirrel archer. Lady Amber.”

“I know who she is.” Tsarmina looked over at the weasel, surprisingly peaceful. Then, without any leadup, she punched him straight to the floor before tossing the table against the wall. “SCUM!” She yelled. “DAMNED TRAITOR!” It was unthinkable; that a Thousand-Eye would betray her, betray _her_ , and for the little snotrag everyone insisted was her brother to boot.

She whirled on Cludd. “How many more liked him?” That weasel Scratch had been a traitor too, she realized. _I must know how deep Martin’s reach goes_.

“I don’t know, but –”

“THEN FIND OUT! We need to rip out their treason root and stem before it takes over. I _will not_ hand Kotir over to either of my traitorous brothers. _I will not_.” She began pacing the room. _I need more soldiers. Ones that Martin and Gingivere couldn’t have gotten their paws on. Fresh troops. Outsiders. Mercenaries. Loyal to their pay, not to any ideals of ‘equality’ or ‘the rights of the smallfolk.’_

Partway through her pacings she realized that Cludd was still in the room. “ARE YOU WAITING FOR A BLOODY RED CARPET OR SOMETHING? GET GOING AND ROOT OUT _EVERYONE_ DISLOYAL TO ME! _GO_!” The weasel yelped and ran off. Tsarmina resumed pacing the room, muttering to herself.

She needed to stop this rebellion before it spread out of control, needed to make Gingivere see the light and get rid of Martin before their father returned. _I need to crush these damned Woodlanders under heel, and fast._

_I need Bane._


	26. The Slavers

Gingivere had returned to the camp in the middle of the ambush. By the time he’d shown up the slavers already managed to subdue Bella and were in the process of placing her in shackles, and although Gonff was still fighting it was obvious that his opponent was a superior swordsbeast. In short, Gingivere had realized, the three of them were well and truly fucked.

As luck would have it, the sentiment had been confirmed almost that very moment – one of the captains (at least Gingivere _thought_ he was a captain, from the way he carried himself) just so happened to glance over in his direction before shouting “sire! There’s another one!”

Gonff had looked over as well, and it had cost him the duel; the second he lost focus on his opponent the weasel pressed in and tackled him to the ground, disarming him and forcing his face into the dirt.

Then, Gingivere, knowing what was probably about to happen, had grabbed a bit of paper out of his tunic and began writing, but before he could write more than a word, the ‘sire’ that the fox had called out to sauntered over to him. Gingivere hastily stuffed the paper back into hiding and turned to face him.

The stoat’s tone had been deceptively affable. “Well know, what’s a wildcat like you doing in the middle of nowhere?”

Gingivere drew himself up. “My business is my own, stoat. Let me and my companions pass unharmed, and we will give you no trouble in return.”

The stoat chuckled, his laughter high and mean and disturbingly similar to Tsarmina’s. “You’re a brave one, cat, I’ll grant you that much. What’s your name?”

“Give me yours, and I shall give you mine.”

“That was a command, not a request.”

“I don’t take commands from vermin.”

The stoat raised his eyebrows. “Vermin, us? How rude!” He had almost sounded genuinely wounded, causing Gingivere to wonder for half a heartbeat whether he’d misjudged the stoat before remembering that innocent creatures generally didn’t go around shackling fellow travelers. “Why, we’re brave sailors of the high seas, stranded ashore and trying to make our way to somewhere safe and peaceful-like.”

Gingivere snorted. “You expect me to believe that? ‘Brave sailors.’ _Corsairs_ , more like. And incompetent ones, too, if you’re so thick as to wander this far from the coast.” He looked over at the band of vermin. “I know your type; always after a bit of easy plunder, but too cowardly to take any real risks.”

The stoat had backhanded him across the face for that remark, sending him flying to the ground, and everything afterwards was a blur. The next thing Gingivere knew, he, Bella, and Gonff had shackles around their necks and were being dragged into the forest west of the clearing.

That had been three hours ago, three hours that had seen the three of them chained into a slave line and driven northwards via a bullwhip wielded by a one-eyed weasel. Half an hour ago they had stopped for the night, all the slaves shackled between the trees while the pirates rested a little ways off.

Gingivere edged over to his companions. “Well, this certainly messes our plans up a bit.”

Gonff stared at him with one eye, the other hidden behind a stream of blood. “We’re in a blooming slave line, matey. I think you’re putting it lightly.” He looked out at the pirates and spat. “As much as I wouldn’t have thought it possible, I’d say _that_ one” – he nodded at the lead stoat – “was worse than your sister. At least _she_ never ordered someone whipped for saying that eye patches were stupid. Any way you can spring us with those claws of yours?”

Gingivere shook his head. “I already tried that. All I got for my trouble was a broken one on my right paw.” He turned to the badger. “Any ideas, Bella? You wouldn’t happen to have encountered any slave caravans before, would you?”

“None, and the only ones I’m familiar with are those your father encountered. Far as I recall, none of them involved the slaves freeing themselves.”

Gingivere sighed. “Oh, well. I guess we’ll just have to figure out how to escape on our –”

With a _crack_ Gingivere felt a line of fire sear across his head, causing him to double over, and the moment he raised his paw to try and message the pain another paw grabbed his wrist.

“Keep your mouth shut, cat.” The grip tightened, and Gingivere felt like the pirate was about to snap a few bones. “Unless, of course, you _want_ me to whip you again.” The grip slackened and vanished only to return, this time as Gingivere felt his face get wrenched upwards until he was face-to-face with the one-eyed weasel. “Will you be nice and quiet from now on?”

“Yes, sir.” His breath smelled of rotten fish, and it was a mighty struggle not to vomit.

“Yes, _sire._ ” He let go of Gingivere’s face. “Remember that. I’ll let you off with a warning now, but in the future you won’t be so lucky.”

There was nothing more any of them could do, so instead they just sat in the dirt and tried to sleep. Things were looking grim, but there was one consolation: Martin was still free, and with luck he would free them. _Somehow. Martin, where ARE you?_

As it turned out, the answer to that question was ‘quite close by’. For the past three hours Martin had trailed the caravan, staying as close as he dared without being seen. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, just sitting and watching, particularly when the slavers had taken out the whip and started using it on those they deemed too slow or too insolent. And that hadn’t even been the worst of it when one of them had turned his whip on Gonff Martin grit his teeth so hard that his jaw was still aching over an hour later. Finally, _finally_ , they had stopped for the night, and Martin wasted no time in scoping out where the rest of his companions had been placed. He’d found Bella first, and was in the process of sneaking over to her when she noticed him.

Bella gaped for a moment before composing herself. Martin grinned and mouthed “ _hold on_.”

Oddly enough, she looked even more terrified than she had earlier. “ _No!_ ” She mouthed back. “ _Hide!”_

Martin frowned. _Why?_ They weren’t going to free themselves, _that_ was for sure, so he just mouthed back “ _Don’t worry_ ” before starting to creep out of the bush.

It was a fortunate thing that he was going as slow as he could, because otherwise Martin would have run straight into one of the rats currently patrolling the edge of the camp. He hastily backpedaled and dove back behind the bush, heart stopping for a moment when the action caused the leaves to shudder and crinkle. The rat frowned and squinted at his hiding place, but mercifully only shrugged and continued his rounds. _Of COURSE they have guards, you idiot. They wouldn’t just leave the slaves unattended_.

There was nothing to do but wait, and watch. When he realized that Gonff was right by Bella his heart leapt, and it went even higher when he spied his brother, but shortly afterwards that weasel from the march noticed them talking and proceeded to whip Gingivere across the back of the head.

Martin turned away. By the time he looked back, the weasel was stalking back off towards the rest of the slavers. _I’ll kill you for hurting my brother_ , he vowed, _as painfully as I can_.

Martin stayed hidden the entire night and continued watching until the slavers picked up camp and yanked the slaves into motion. It was both horrifying and utterly transfixing. _By the fur, there’s so MANY of them!_ He saw babes just barely old enough to walk, creatures his own age, even a few so old that they would like as not die before the slavers reached their destination. And in the far back, Gingivere, still looking pained; Gonff, his left eye swollen shut; Bella, looking the most defeated Martin had ever seen her. He watched them all march, unable to infiltrate the column and save them or do anything but wait for the rear guard to march far enough ahead that he could follow unnoticed.

 He shadowed the column for the entire day, darting up and down as much as he dared, scoping out numbers, raiding foodstuffs, and trying to think of a way to free the slaves.

The column drifted northwest, back towards the coast, where Martin knew that there would be fewer places to hide and even fewer opportunities to save anyone. _I have to do this while we’re still in the forest. If only I knew how much more forest I have_ …

After another full day of pursuit, he knew that he had act soon: one of the scouts had reported that the trees started to give way to marshland and open grass about a mile and a half to the northwest. _Tonight. I’ll do it tonight._

At dusk, as was routine, the slavers chained up their prisoners and tossed them all a bit of food before leaving them in the care of the one-eyed weasel and a couple other vermin. Martin had noticed that normally the other two wandered off back to camp partway through the night, leaving the weasel alone until his relief arrived, leaving a brief window in which Martin could act.

The two rats departed on schedule, and Martin crept out from behind a rock. _Five minutes. That’s all I have. Five minutes to free an entire slave line_. He wondered if it could actually be done.

Of course, before he could even attempt it, he needed to get rid of the weasel. The safest way to do that, he had decided, would be to distract him first before moving in for the kill. With that in mind, Martin grabbed a rock, slunk up near his target, and tossed the rock into the bushes.

“Wha?” The weasel turned away for half a second to investigate where the noise had come from.

In that half second, Martin’s knife slid out of its sheath without a sound.

“Must be the wind.” The weasel mumbled before returning to his vigil.

Martin lunged at him and grabbed his neck. The weasel opened his mouth to shout –

And immediately started choking as his throat ripped open.

The last words Hisk ever heard were a whispered “and that’s for my brother, cunt.”

The weasel’s body dropped to the forest floor without a sound. Almost mechanically, Martin began searching his body for a set of keys, trying to quash that part of his brain that was in shock over the fact he’d just killed someone. _Not the time_ , he admonished himself. _You can react AFTER everyone’s safe._ Not finding anything on the weasel’s front, Martin turned the corpse over and tried to ignore the bloodstains.

There wasn’t anything on his backside, either; wherever the keys to the shackles were, they were definitely not on the dead guard. _Of course not_ , he realized. _Why would they give keys to the one creature the slaves could actually kill?_ Now that he thought about it, the idea that the slavers would be idiotic enough to run that risk was laughable. He’d killed the wrong creature, plain and simple. _Now my only hope is to try and get rid of the body before someone notices and pray that I can sneak up into the midst of the rest of them._

Unfortunately, right at that moment one of the slaves happened to wake up. The mouse saw both the corpse as well as the blood-covered creature attempting to drag it into the underbrush, and promptly screamed with terror.

_Oh, blast it all!_ Martin knew that there was no point in trying to hide; the moment they saw that one of their number had been gutted like a fish, the rest of the slaver band would no doubt order a search of the entire forest in order to find the culprit, and like as not torture a few slaves as well in case this was part of some conspiracy. So, instead of attempting to conceal himself, Martin simply dropped the body on the ground and drew his sword, readying himself for whatever came.

Sure enough, within moments a pair of rats emerged spears in hand. They both stopped upon seeing their dead comrade, gaped, and turned their gaze to the mouse standing over him.

Martin addressed them. “I don’t suppose either of you would be willing to help me unlock this lot, would you?” He nodded down at the dead weasel. “He wasn’t, unfortunately.”

The two stared at each other, clearly unsure of how to respond.

“Well? I don’t have all night.” Martin readied himself for the inevitable attack.

It came from the one on the left, who lowered his spear and charged. Martin sidestepped him and laid the flat of his sword across the rat’s head hard enough to daze him. Then, after taking a second to compose and steel himself for what was to come, Martin flipped the sword ninety degrees and brought it down on the rat’s neck. His victim’s body jerked as the sword cut through flesh and caught on his bone, but after Martin managed to wrench his blade out there was no more movement.

Again forcing himself not to dwell on the fact that he’d just taken a life, Martin swung the sword around to bear on the other rat. Instead of charging, however, he opted instead to yell.

“HELP! MURDER! A MOUSE JUST KILLED HISK AND FRAGGUN! HE’S GOT A SWORD!”

Even more than the slave’s yell, the panicked shout of one of their own caused the entire slaver camp to hurry into action, and before Martin could even attempt to silence the other creature he was surrounded by at least a dozen vermin from the camp.

At their center stood the great stoat leader himself. He carried his own sword, an iron cutlass about the side of Martin’s blade. When he spoke it was in a tone that reminded Martin both of his sister at her most dangerous and of that other corsair his father had battled all those years ago.

“You’re a bold creature, aren’t you? You’ve cost me one of my best captains!”

“And Fraggun too, sire, don’t forget.”

The stoat rolled his eyes. “And Fraggun too.” He looked the mouse over, trying to get a measure of the creature that had somehow stole in and killed two of his own without suffering so much as a scratch, and promptly smiled. “They’ll need replacing, of course, and it seems to me that someone brave enough to do nicely is already here. What do you say, young’un?”

Martin didn’t even deign the question with an answer and lowered his sword back into offensive position.

The stoat sighed. “No? It was a foolish question, I guess. A better one, I suppose, would be to ask why you are here.”

“Freedom, for every single creature you’ve got chained up.” All of a sudden, Martin was reminded of another corsair in another time, and he knew what he had to do. “Single combat, you and me, with your slaves as the wager.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the journey north gets derailed a bit.   
> The next chapter, incidentally, is going to swing back down to Mossflower so we can see how things are going down there.


	27. Tsarmina, Queen of Mossflower

It was first light, as had been agreed upon. All of the Thousand-Eyes were lined up on one side of the yard, as had been agreed upon. There was even a massive spread of food waiting in the Great Hall, as had been agreed upon. Tsarmina had done everything she could to fulfill the terms Bane had set during their back-and-forth negotiations, no matter how much it pained her to humble herself in front of him, and fortunately things seemed to be proceeding without a hitch.

At least, they _were_ , until when practically the moment that Bane’s mercenaries emerged from the woods they were set upon by the damnable rebels.

Upon hearing the first sounds of battle Tsarmina immediately grabbed a bow from the nearest soldier and sprinted up to the battlements to look for herself. _Damn it, damn it, damn it all!_ It was those blasted squirrels again.

“Don’t just stand there gawking!” She yelled. “Bowbeasts, I want you firing! Cludd, open the gates! We need to cover them!” The mercenaries preferred to wear their armor light for easier movement, she knew. If they didn’t get out of danger soon, like as not the squirrels would manage to pick them all off. Tsarmina growled in disgust and began launching arrows out at the forest. “Cowards! Show yourselves! Only the craven hide from sight and depend on sneak attacks!”

Whoever was out there didn’t respond, save for firing more arrows. In the meantime the Thousand-Eyes marched out onto the hot summer plain, their captains prodding them forwards into the hail of projectiles until they managed to overtake Bane’s creatures. “Shield wall, _up!_ ” Cludd shouted. At once, three hundred shields rose up into the air, blocking the arrows. Tsarmina heard Bane yell “Everyone, make for Kotir!” They retreated in a semi-orderly fashion, and finally all 60 or so of them were safe inside the walls while the Thousand-Eyes formed up just outside the gates.

The arrows had stopped, and the only sounds to be heard were the rustling of the wind and the heavy breathing of the soldiers. Tsarmina called out into the silence. “Are you there, Martin? Did you see that? I just rescued every one of Bane’s mercenaries from right under your nose! You can’t win, furball!” She waited for an answer, got none, and spat, disgusted. C _owards, all of them_.

Back in the yard, Tsarmina made her way over to Bane and hailed him. He nodded at her, grim but thankful to be resuced. “You have my thanks, milady. Those archers had us dead to rights out there, and without that shield wall of yours I fear what would have happened.”

“It was as I said. All the Woodlanders are untrustworthy cravens, and we must bring them to heel as soon as we can.”

The fox gave her a sharp look. “My soldiers need rest, first. Bentbrush took an arrow through the shoulder and another one through the leg, and if he doesn’t get help soon he’ll die.”

“I’ll have Fortunata care for him. She’s the best healer in the castle.” Not that she had much competition on that part, but Tsarmina left that unsaid.

“Thank you, milady.”

She smiled. “Whatever I can do to provide for you all.” _And to keep your loyalty, more importantly_. “But come. We have much do discuss.”

While their armies dined on fish from the River Moss in the great hall and bowls of stew, Tsarmina and Bane opted for a spiced sirloin roast with a large bowl of raspberries off to the side. By the time the two finally began talking, the fox had already eaten at least a quarter of the bowl along with more than his fair share of the roast.

“I’m glad that lunch was to your liking.” _Ignore the sloppiness_ , Tsarmina told herself, _you need him_.

Bane paused stuffing his mouth long enough to look at her. “It’s been too long since I had blueberries like these. May I ask where they come from?”

“From the fields north of here. A mouse named Timballisto works them, and these were from the last little bit we were able to collect before this rebellion began.”

Bane dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. “Ah, yes. The rebels. They’re more well-armed than you told me.”

Tsarmina felt herself blush. “The cowards snuck up on us, is all. Normally they content themselves to staying in the woods and shooting off a couple arrows at patrols.”

Bane frowned. “That was more than simply getting off a few volleys, though. Perhaps they’re getting braver?”

“Or they were simply afraid of the prospect of facing a band of hardened mercenaries in addition to my own soldiers and wanted to neuter the threat. Either is possible.”

“That would probably depend on who’s leading them.” He looked at her, questioningly.

“My brothers, I’m sure of it. That ambush was probably Martin’s work.”

“Martin.” Bane looked down at the table, and suddenly Tsarmina remembered something: _wasn’t he the old master-at-arms here for a couple years?_ If he had been, then that meant that he would’ve been the one to teach the little furball how to swing a sword, and THAT meant… _Damn it, why did I just remember this now?_

A cold feeling of worry ran down her back. She had to speak, to nip any guilt on his part in the bud. “My brother is a traitor. Whatever he may have been when you taught him swordplay, now he’s only a dagger pointed right at my throat.”

“And why is that?” Bane’s voice grew sharp. “Because you kicked him in the dirt one too many times? Because half the fields we walked across on our way here are nothing but dried earth?” He stood up. “Spare me your justifications, Tsarmina. We both know what you’re really after.”

Tsarmina felt her cheeks redden but remained seated. _Don’t play his game. Trap him._ “Then why are you here? If you hate me so much, why not walk out of this castle right now and join the rebels?”

The fox sneered. “Perhaps I will.”

“You won’t.” She lazily flicked a blueberry across the room. “You’ll stay right here, no matter your personal feelings. Because of them, actually.” She smirked at him.

“And why is that?” Bane was cautious now, Tsarmina noticed, unsure of where she was going.

So she decided to enlighten him. “Because, fond of my brother you may have been, your first priority is to those sixty creatures out there you brought with you. And the simple fact is, much as _you_ may personally sympathize with the rebels, everyone out there’s a different story entirely. The only thing _they_ fight for is their paycheck.” Bane opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Come on, you know it’s true. Elsewise, why would they have become mercenaries in the first place? The truth is, they want to get paid, and they won’t be unless you fight by my side. You can’t feed an army with the gratitude of peasants, now can you?”

Bane sighed and sat back down. “Fair enough.”

“Can I still count you as an ally, then?”

“Yes, you can.” He held up his paw. “On one condition.”

“And that is?”

“We conduct this war _my_ way. Quickly, efficiently, and with minimal casualties on both sides.”

Tsarmina had to bite her tongue. _The nerve of this one, commanding me!_ She wanted to yell at him, to put the insolent fox in his place, but instead she found herself nodding and saying “yes, fine, as long as the rebels are brought to heel.”

“Have no fear on that, milady.” Bane stood up again and walked out of the chamber. Once he was gone Tsarmina summoned Cludd. “Keep an eye on our fox friend. I don’t trust him.”

Bane wandered up the halls of the castle he had called home for several years and wondered how things had changed since those days. _Surely the me of six years ago wouldn’t have given in to her that easily, would I?_ Back then, they’d all held prestige positions in Mossflower: him the master-at-arms, Badtail the drill sergeant, the group as a whole Mossflower’s last line of defense if the Tousand-Eyes fell. True, they’d still been Mercenaries and had left when their contract with Verdauga concluded, but at least then there had been _some_ sense of nobility in how they conducted themselves. Now they were no different than any other band wandering the world in search of their next payday. Tsarmina was right: even if he tried to leave and join up with the Woodlanders, his own creatures would probably just turn back around and march back to Kotir. After slitting his throat, like as not.

He took out his sword and studied it. _Like it or not, it’s been sworn to serve lady Tsarmina for good or ill_. Access to the bounties of Mossflower would keep them all fed for a long time, and once the battle was done he was sure that many of his creatures would come away better armed than they had been going into it. _She was right on that, as well. My biggest concern is them, not my personal feelings_.

After taking one last look as his sword, Bane shook his head, grit his teeth, and turned around. It was time to get planning just how they would go about quashing the rebellion.

***

That night, the section of Mossflower nearest to Kotir burst into flames as soldiers led by a grim-faced fox hurled flaming bundles of wood into the trees. As predicted this sent the Woodlanders scurrying out into the open, some making for the river and others just zig-zagging across the plains in hopes of reaching sections upwind, but all of them were met with detachments of Thousand-Eyes. The ones who had fled upwind were fortunate enough to be able to break through to safety with only a couple casualties; the ones down by the river were less lucky, getting peppered with arrows until most of them were cut to pieces by the time their opponents turned north to pursue those escaping or those still in the forest.

“Should we take the survivors prisoner?” Bane asked Tsarmina.

“No.” The wildcat had an insane look on her face, eyes reflected in the firelight. “Let’s give tonight over to some fun.” She turned around and shouted down to some of the soldiers in the courtyard. “Release the Gloomer!”

A group of five rats immediately scurried off. “The Gloomer?” Bane had no idea what that was.

Tsarmina looked at him with the same grin one would give to a bug they were about to take a savage pleasure in squashing. “Oh, you’ll see.” She looked out at the river and sighed, looking, perversely, wistful. “If only we had some snacks.”

Bane had a sudden sense of dread.

After what seemed like an eternity, with a great moan the sluice gates to Kotir’s sewers opened wide, and Bane caught a glimpse of what looked like some type of shape dart out through the water. “What is that?”

Tsarmina shushed him. “Just watch the fun.”

The shape, whatever it was, powered up the river at an astonishing speed until it reached the bank where the rebels had drawn up a position. Then, with a deep roar, it leapt out of the water and grabbed a mole. _It’s a rat!_ Bane realized. _Some kind of swimming rat!_ The mole screamed as the rat pulled him back into the depths, struggling as hard as he could, but in the end the rat snapped his neck and began feasting under the surface. The other rebels were screaming now, lifting spears and bows and making a desperate attempt at killing the beast. Many of their attacks hit home but only seemed to anger it, and again and again the monster lunged out of the water and grabbed another victim. Eventually the survivors began to flee once more across the plains, only to get feathered with arrows down from Kotir’s ramparts. The monstrous rat then lumbered out of the water and began gnawing at their carcasses.

Tsarmina looked at Bane, positive aroused. “Well, fox? What do you think of my Gloomer?”

Unable to respond, Bane turned away and started making his way down from the ramparts. Everything was getting to him: the smell of burning trees, the screams of the dying, the maniacal laughter of Tsarmina.

In the end they did wind up taking prisoners – six of them in fact, a family of hedgehogs the fires had smoked out of the woods. Said family currently sat at the heel of Tsarmina’s throne, shackled arm and leg.

Two of the little ones glared up at the wildcat. “Let us go, you big meanie! We haven’t done nothing!” The one on the left shouted.

“Yeah! We’re free creatures of Mossflower!” The other charmed in.

Tsarmina had that insane look again. “You’re a brave pair, aren’t you? You should be careful, though. Cheek like that might get you in trouble someday.” Idly, she produced a thin, hooked knife and started playing with it.   
  
“Have mercy, milday!” The mother begged. “Don’t hurt my Ferdy and Coggs, please! They’re just _children_!”

“What about the other two? Are they fair game?” Tsarmina chuckled as the two adult Hedgehogs went white as a sheet. “Hmmm… I bet I could make a nice pair of gloves out of them.”

The room started swimming in front of Bane, who could feel the bile rising in his throat. The fox tore himself away from the conversation long enough to force it back down, and by the time he started listening again the father had started to plead on his knees. “Please, lady Tsarmina! All we wanted was food enough to feed our families. We don’t mean you any harm.”

She looked at him. “Say, hedgepig. You look familiar. Have we spoken before?”

He brightened somewhat. “Yes, milady is good to remember. We came before you a few days ago. Me and Timballisto and Gonff and…lord Martin…” The more he spoke, Bane noticed, the more his face contorted into a terrified expression. And no wonder, since he just confessed to consorting with traitors.

Tsarmina was silent for a moment. “Ah, yes. I remember. Do you know what else I remember?”

The hedgehog’s voice was faint. “No, milady?”

She continued to finger her knife. “Allow me to tell you, then. I remember that it was that very same occasion that sparked this little rebellion. I also remember that you and Martin consorted the entire night before that.” Her face split into a wide, cruel grin. “Why, my friends,” – she gestured at all the Thousand-Eyes and mercenaries in the chamber – “we seem to have captured one of the leaders of the resistance!”

The mother tried to protest that they weren’t involved, that they were just innocents, but all it earned her was a spear butt to the head.

Tsarmina leaned forwards in her chair. “Here is my decision, hedgepigs. Because I am feeling merciful, I will let you live. For now, at least.” She nodded at Scratt. “Take them to the dungeons, but make sure that the young ones are in cells apart from their parents and the happy couple in ones apart from one another.” Turning back to the two hedgehogs, she continued. “Now, whether you _stay_ alive much longer depends very much on the next few days.” She held her knife out to them. “See this here? We’ll soon be by to ask you both a few questions. If what we hear isn’t the same from one hedgepig to the other, then this knife just might find its way into the cells of the little ones.” Finally, for a bit of effect, she grabbed a pear off the table and began using the knife to peel the skin off. “Scratt, take them away, and remember: I want the young ones to be heard, but not seen.”

The hedgehogs were all sobbing them, save those two brave children, but no-one in the hall stirred a paw to intervene as Scratt led them away. Once they were gone, Tsarmina settled back into her chair and took a bite out of the skinned fruit.

For his part, Bane immediately left the hall and found the nearest chamber pot, finally giving free rein to all the sick that had been bubbling up all evening. Afterwards, physically and emotionally drained, he staggered back to the chambers Tsarmina had prepared for him and collapsed onto the bed.

_What have I done?_


	28. Stoat and Mouse

The ring of corsairs erupted into a burst of laughter. “Single combat? _You?_ Do you really think you can take me?” Their leader smirked down at the little mouse.

“I’ve battled foes more impressive than you and lived to tell about it.” _Not that it was anything more dangerous than sparring, of course_. Still, better to exude as much confidence as possible. “My father made sure that I knew how to fight creatures larger than me and win.”

His responses seemed to amuse the stoat. “A wise beast, I take it. Well then, did he make sure you knew what to do with creatures who could slay with a single swing of the sword?”

With that he lunged out and aimed a broad cut at Martin’s upper chest. The mouse dodged back half a pace and reared his own blade for attack. “As a matter of fact, he did.”

The stoat merely chuckled and continued the dance. After a couple more probes, deciding to make an end of it, he glanced over to the slaver nearest to Martin and gave a quick nod of the head.

Carrying an oaken pikestaff he ran forwards. Standing behind Martin he swung downwards, but instead of hitting the mouse on the head the pikestaff instead collided with solid metal. Martin had parried, forcing his opponent’s weapon out of the way and leaving the weasel’s chest defenseless, before disengaging long enough to drive his sword’s pommel right into the stomach of his opponent.

The weasel dropped to the ground, gagging and clutching at his chest, while Martin whirled back around until his sword was once again pointed at the stoat. “He _also_ taught me to be aware of everything around me.” He kicked the pikestaff away into the bushes. “Especially if I was fighting an opponent without scruples.”

The smile flickered from the stoat’s face and his grip on his cutlass tightened. “I see. Are you certain you wouldn’t care to join our merry band? I could use someone like you. Come on, mouse! You’d have the best food, the best slaves, all the prestige you’d desire.”

“The only thing I want is what I said: all your slaves freed.”

“Over one duel?” He snorted. “Ridiculous, even assuming I do agree to fight you.”

_Blast_ , Martin thought, _I’m losing him_. He glanced over at the slaves, all of them transfixed, and realized that there was no way to free them all. Not while it was just him. “Three, then. My companions, and none other.” The words weighed heavy in his chest, but he needed to face the simple truth: it was likely that the only three creatures the stoat would be willing to part with would be the ones his opponent personally knew.

“Again, you’re assuming that I have any interest in your challenge. I could just have my corsairs take you right now.”

“And if you did, you would have to life with the fact that you were too afraid to fight a single mouse.” Martin forced himself to scoff and disguise the sheer terror he was feeling. “Truly, a brave leader.”

_That_ did the trick, it was plain to see. “Well, mouse, you’re not short on nerve.” The stoat dropped into a fighting stance. “If it’s a duel you want, it’s a duel you’ll get. I, Badrang the Tyrant, lord of the coasts, accept your challenge. Now, which were three slaves you want to take from me?”

“The wildcat, the badger, and the mouse you caught alongside them.”

“Skalrag, bring them here.” Once the fox returned with the three prisoners, Badrang spoke to them without turning his head away from his enemy. “Your mouse friend here has agreed to wager you in a duel. If he wins, you have my word that my corsairs and I will let you go free. If he loses, you remain here as my slaves. As will your friend, if he lives.” He favored Martin with a savage grin that reminded the mouse quite a bit of Tsarmina. “So you had best pray for his victory.”

Both combatants dropped their swords into ready position, and the duel commenced.

Martin heard Bane’s words in his ears: _Use your smaller size to your advantage to dodge their attacks while you wait for your opportunity to strike._ All his life, he’d been drilled to fight in one manner: avoid and dodge until the opponent was tired, and strike when his guard was down. So when Badrang’s cutlass sang through the air towards him Martin ducked and wove around him, occasionally probing at the stoat in the hopes of finding a weak point. It was next to impossible: even though Martin had the heavier sword, Badrang still managed to swat away every cut and jab towards his person. Eventually Badrang managed to drive Martin back against a large rock, trapping him.

The stoat disengaged for a heartbeat and smirked. “Enough running out of you, mouse.”

Martin raised his sword and charged. Steel sang against steel, Martin hacking at Badrang’s legs while Badrang turned the attacks into blows aimed at the mouse’s head. _The weight. Use the weight_. Martin changed tactics; instead of letting Badrang continue his train of endless parries, he opted to instead let the stoat come to him. He obliged, only to find his cutlass swatted out of the way, forcing him to overcorrect in order to avoid having his stomach ripped open. The stoat brought his blade back down to his center, only to find that Martin was suddenly hacking away at it like some sort of meat cleaver, and although the stoat was far larger than the mouse the simple fact his earlier efforts concealed now rang true: a cutlass was lighter than a broadsword. Slowly, inexorably, Martin began driving his opponent back from the rock and into open ground once more.

Badrang grit his teeth and pushed outwards before leaping backwards, buying himself some breathing room. The mouse was a great deal tougher than anticipated, that much was plain. The stoat took advantage of the pause in their dance to lament the fact that they were on opposing sides, adjusted his grip on the now slick with sweat hilt of his cutlass, and charged right back into things.

Back on even ground, Martin resumed his attack, but the mosue knew he was tiring. The past few days and their lack of any lengthy sleep were beginning to take their toll. Nevertheless, he continued, pressing the stoat where he could and avoiding what could not be parried. Eventually, though, he made a mistake and overshot, giving Badrang a window to lunge inwards. Only sheer luck and his skill with the sword kept Martin from being cut in two, but even then, the sword flew out of his hands. Badrang cried out in triumph.

Martin’s paw dropped down to his waistband. As Badrang swung downwards he jabbed at the stoat’s hip, knife in hand, tearing through clothing and fur alike before making a dive to the stoat’s left. It was clumsy, but it managed to get him both out of the way of the cutlass and within arm’s length of his own weapon.

Badrang, for his part, grunted and clapped his paw over the wound.t. It came up wet and dark with blood, and now every breath was stinging. He took stock of his injury: the cut wasn’t all that deep, thankfully, but it had still gone far enough that moving sent waves of pain up his side. He turned back to his opponent, noticed that he’d managed to retrieve his sword, and let out a growl. “That wasn’t chivalrous of you, matey.”

“You want chivalry? Go listen to a song.” Martin twirled his sword back into ready position and grinned as confidently as he could manage.

 

All throughout the duel Gonff had been watching with his jaw completely agape. When Martin had first challenged the leader of the corsairs the other mouse had been sure that it was only going to end in his death; sure Martin had been skilled enough to more or less dominate their own fight, but (as his sorry showing against that fox had demonstrated) Gonff was far from a master swordsbeast, and considering the sheer size difference between his friend and the stoat there didn’t seem to be any way that Martin could actually win. It was thus a complete shock that Martin was managing to match Badrang blow-for-blow, and so far Gonff had been unable to look away.

Gonff realized then that Martin really hadn’t been taking their duel back in Kotir remotely seriously.

The mouse could _move_ , wielding his sword with a sort of precision Gonff had never seen before even from the most skilled of the Woodlanders, and so by the time Martin managed to nick his opponent across the stomach Gonff began to cautiously hope that maybe he _could_ win the day after all.

Still, it was getting clear that Martin was tiring fast. The past few days’ marching seemed to be weighing on him, and it seemed as though his sword arm was starting to falter. Gonff sent up a silent prayer. _Hang in there, matey_.

He looked over at Badrang. The stoat seemed to be in better condition, but from his movements it was clear that the cut had hurt.

Nevertheless the dance continued, if slightly more lethargic than it had been at the start, steel clashing and both combatants trying to gain the upper hand. Oddly enough, Martin didn’t seem to be focusing on the wound he’d already inflicted: all of his strikes aimed at other parts of the stomach. Gonff frowned. _What’s he up to?_

Apparently whatever Martin was trying to accomplish wasn’t happening, so after a few more blows he changed tactics once again and started alternating jabs at Badrang’s chest with the occasional exploratory cut towards the wound. This worked much better, forcing the stoat to completely eschew attacking in favor of defense. Martin began alternating blows faster and faster, sacrificing power for sheer speed, and eventually –

Badrang gasped with pain, Martin having managed to slash clean across his lower chest. Panting from exertion, the mouse withdrew and lowered his sword into a defensive position. This cut had been shallow as well, elsewise it would have opened the stoat from side to side, but a blow was still a blow, and when Badrang started forwards it was clear that he was seriously encumbered and very much in pain.

The two glared at each other. The time for words was past, and the dance was at its end.

With a grunt Badrang forced himself forwards, hoping to overpower the exhausted mouse. Martin, for his part, rather than waiting for his opponent to come to him as he had before charged forwards and leapt until he was directly under the stoat’s cutlass. Badrang swung down while Martin swung up, holding his sword up above his shoulder, and almost at the same time flicked his wrist ninety degrees.

The sound of steel on steel was quickly replaced with a deep, pained scream. Abandoning all sense of finesse Badrang desperately kicked outwards, his only thought being to get the mouse away from him as quickly as possible. The kick caught Martin in the chest, sending him flying backwards several feet, and at the same time the stoat backed up towards his own corsairs while clutching the severed stump of his right paw.

Martin rose to his feet, exhausted but triumphant, and raised his sword as steadily as he could until it pointed at his defeated enemy. Then, in as commanding a voice as he could muster, he spoke one word: “yield.”

Badrang forced himself to ignore the searing throb in his right arm in order to think. Was there a solution? Something he could use to salvage some sort of victory out of his defeat? He still had his left paw, maybe he could…

_No_. He dropped his left paw to his chest and immediately withdrew it from the pain. It was already covered in his own blood _If we fight anymore, I’ll die_.

The prospect, frankly, terrified him. He looked back at the mouse, the one who had somehow bested him, and croaked out his answer. “I yield. Skalrag, set his companions free.” And with that, Badrang turned, every movement an agonizing stab from three locations at once, and limped back towards his tent, utterly defeated.

Martin had fully expected, even prepared as best he could for the possibility, that the corsairs would refuse to abide by the terms of the combat. So it was a surprise, then, when no sooner had Badrang dragged himself out of sight did Martin hear the telltale _clinks_ that signified his companions being released from their chains. The fox named Skalrag directed them over to him, grumbling all the while, and he very nearly shoved Gonff onto the other mouse before undoing his swordbelt and throwing away his stolen sword.

“Here. Our lord has given you safe passage, so take your damned sword. Now get out of my sight before I decide not to follow Badrang’s orders.”

Without another word, all four of them started off northwards, eager to put the mess behind them, eager to ignore the stares of all those they were forced to leave behind.

They only got a short distance away from the camp when it became obvious that Martin was flagging. Too exhausted to do much more than lift his head and stumble forwards, he managed a few more steps before catching his paw on a rock and tumbling to the ground.

Bella stood over him, her own massive paw outstretched. Martin took it and struggled to get up before almost immediately falling back down. “I…don’t think I can stand.”

The badger sighed and kneeled over him. She plucked him off the ground with both of her paws and hoisted him over her back, much as she had when he was a child. Then, grunting with effort, she started forwards.

Too tired to protest, Martin simply muttered a ‘thanks’ before falling asleep. They were all silent after that, save for the occasional _huffs_ from the badger, still processing the past few days. Eventually, though, the silence grew too oppressive and Gingivere was moved to speak.

“Was it right?” He asked. “For us to abandon the rest of the slaves?”

“We did what we had to.” Bella’s voice was sad. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Gingivere, but we can only fight one battle at a time, and for us, that battle is back in Mossflower If we had tried to save all of them, we would either be dead or slaves, and your father would have no way of knowing what is going on back home.” The badger sighed with regret. “Sometimes, even the right choice feels like the wrong one.”


	29. Robin's Eyes

Chibb could still smell the ash and burnt wood as he winged over Mossflower. _What was she thinking, starting a fire in the middle of the drought?_ Whatever had been passing through the wildcat’s head when she gave the order to set the entire country on fire, if the intent had been to completely destroy their rebellion it had come perilously close to succeeding; the fires had spread downwind all through the night until they’d finally Brockhall, forcing everyone to flee through the smoke and fires to seek shelter at Camp Willow, the otter holt.

That had been a few days ago. Only now, with the fires burnt out and the smoke dissipated enough that they could actually go outside without holding a cloth to their mouths, did Timballisto and Skipper judge it safe enough for the Woodlanders to emerge from hiding. At least, once Chibb had made sure that it would be safe for them to do so. As the robin flew over Mossflower, he was pleased to see that, judging by the lack of any soldiers picking through the rubble, the Woodlanders weren’t the only ones reluctant to crawl out of their hidey-holes.

Still, it wouldn’t be long before the Thousand-Eyes came flooding back out of Kotir in search of their prey. The _what_ of that was certain; his job was to figure out the _where_ and _how_ and _when_. So over Mossflower he flew, westwards across the destroyed forest until he came up to the great fortress. Strangely, the fortress was completely silent, with neither the _clink_ of armor or the shouted commands of the army captains to be heard.

Chibb frowned. _What’s going on?_ Surely after their stunt with the fire Tsarmina would be preparing to crush them for good, wouldn’t she? Yet that would require them to actively be readying themselves for battle, which would make at least a _little_ noise.

Cautiously, Chibb flitted the outer wall and landed. He scanned the courtyard and saw nothing but dust, as though the army had simply up and left. _But they couldn’t have. Where would they go?_ Yet here he stood, on the very wall of Kotir, alone save a gentle breeze. _Something’s wrong here._ He flew down to the courtyard, looking for signs of life or anything that might tell him what Tsarmina was up to.

 _Well, there’s pawprints all over, and fresh, too. So they were here, and recently_. _So where did they go?_ The pawprints were all jumbled up, but after a few minutes of analysis the robin concluded that by and large they pointed out the westward gate. _But what’s out there? Surely they’re not attempting to march on Salamandastron, so why would they abandon a perfectly secure fortification?_ It made no _sense_.

Chibb sighed. _No sense hanging around here._ He flapped back into the air and started westwards. Whatever they were up to, he’d find out.

After a couple more minutes on the wing the robin began to hear the slow and steady noise of hammers beating something into shape and smell the scent of cookfires and soon after he saw precisely what they were creating: an enormous wooden fort on the western border. _By the fur!_

Some ways off from the main camp he spied the bright green command tent that could only be Tsarmina’s, and he carefully flew over and landed alongside it.

Inside he could hear the wildcat conversing with some of her captains.

“Any sign of the rebels?” She asked.

“Nothing yet, milady.” The response came from Cludd, Chibb was fairly sure. Whoever it was, they chuckled meanly. “Maybe the fire scared them clean out of the forest.”

“I would hope not.” Tsarmina’s voice hardened. “If that was the case, then I would almost start to suspect that someone had started the fire in order to let them escape their rightful lady.”

“You wanted me to devise a quick and simple way of flushing the Woodlanders into the open and eliminating their hiding place.” Bane replied, his voice even. “I was merely following your orders. Perhaps they have some other refuge we aren’t aware of?”

“Perhaps…” Tsarmina’s voice trailed off. “Cludd, did you remember to bring the hedgepigs?”

 _Hedgepigs?_ Chibb’s heart leapt into his throat. _Ben and his family? But we thought they were dead!_ He leaned in again.

“Bring them hear then and be quick about it!”

“Aye, milady!”

Chibb heard some shuffling before Cludd appeared from inside the tent. The robin watched him go before turning back to the conversation.

“I still disapprove of your decision to bring us out here.” Bane was saying.

“I explained to you my reasons last night, fox, and I’m not going to do it again.”

“But are the odds of Boar and the Long Patrol coming really all that high?”

“We have to at least consider the possibility, as I said. And as I _also_ said, I’d rather face him or any other traitor from here than back at Kotir.” Her tone made it clear that the conversation was over, so Bane fell silent. Cludd soon returned, dragging the entire Stickle family behind him as he came. The very sight of it made Chibb’s stomach sink.

“What do you want from us?” Ben’s voice sounded dead.

“We just have a question for you.” Bane was trying to sound reassuring, but the waver in his voice made it so that – in Chibb’s opinion – he was doing a rather poor job of it. “About Mossflower.”

“You burned it all down, didn’t you?” It was one of the little ones. “Ain’t nothing my pa can tell you!”

“Silence, brat, or I’ll take another finger from you.” Tsarmina hissed. _Another?_ Chibb felt woozy.

“N-no. Please, I’ll tell you anything!” Goody sounded as terrified as Chibb had ever heard a creature.

Tsarmina laughed. “See, Bane? I told you a little flaying never went amiss!” The world swirled around the robin as he forced himself to keep listening to the horror. “Now, as my friend said, we just want to know one thing: where would the rebels have gone after we smoked them out of their little oak tree?”

“We-we don’t know. As we’ve said, we’re not rebels, milady.”

“But surely you must have _some_ idea.” Chibb heard what sounded like the faint _slap_ of a knife across a pa.

“We’ll talk! We’ll talk! There’s no need to wave that –”

“ _That_ depends on what you have to say. So I suggest you spill it _now_. Where did they go?”

Chibb sent up a silent prayer. _Please don’t mention Camp Willow, please, say they might have gone deeper into the woods or to Timballisto’s estate, just say_ something _to throw them off…_

“They-they might have gone to the otter holt.”

Chibb suppressed a groan. _Oh, bugger me with a bloody spear._

“The river dogs?” Tsarmina _hmmed_ in thought. “Now that I think about it, that Skipper bloke _was_ one of the traitors that came with you and my brothers…”

“It’s worth investigating, at least.” Bane again tried to sound comforting. “You’ve done us a great service.”

“Yes, yes. Cludd, take them out of my sight.”

Chibb was seized with terror: she knew now. _I have to warn them!_

Abandoning all caution the robin leapt into the air. A chorus of shouts rang up from below him as he did so, followed by the _thrum_ of bowstrings and the _whizz_ of arrows, forcing him to take evasive action to avoid getting shot down.

The arrows _whizzed_ past him constantly, and Chibb zigged and zagged around, almost forgetting where he was going in the dash to avoid one arrow and then the next, and before he knew it the robin was face-to-face with the wildcat herself, who had grabbed a bow and sprinted to the top of the wooden fort.

Her face contorted into a snarl. “What did you hear? Tell me!” She already had an arrow notched and ready to fire as soon as she raised the bow. “I command you to speak!”

So Chibb did. “FOR MOSSFLOWER!” He threw himself at Tsarmina, claws outward and slashing wildly, and the wildcat shrieked as claws raked across her face. With one paw she grabbed Chibb and flung him off of her while the other clamped over her eye.

Chibb righted himself in the air as fast as he could and took off northwards. Behind him, Tsarmina started screaming curses and promises of bloody vengeance. Feeling wildly energized and confident, the robin simply turned and smirked down at her.

“Why, milady. If your father could hear that tongue of yours…”

“KILL HIM!” She was practically spitting, Chibb noticed. “I WANT THAT FUCKING ROBIN DEAD!”

This time, though, he was too far away for the arrows to come anywhere near him.

***

Upon his return to Camp Willow, Chibb was immediately greeted by another helping of taut bowstrings, the sight of which caused him to sigh irritably.

“Calm down, you lot. It’s only me.”

“Were you followed?” Skipper called up.

“If I was, do you think I would’ve come straight here? It’s safe, matey.” The bows loosened, allowing Chibb to safely fly down to the ground.

“How went the spying? Timballisto’s scouts said that Kotir was oddly silent.”

The robin nodded. “Aye. The entire army’s packed up and gone westwards to the border. It seemed like they were setting up some kind of palisade there.”

“Well, that’s good news of a sort. What else did you find? You were gone for a while.”

Chibb took a deep breath before speaking again. “I have good news, and bad. The Stickles are all still alive, and from what I could tell the wildcat intends to keep them that way for a bit.”

“Truly?” Skipper clasped Chibb’s wing in his paws. “That’s wonderful news!”

“I wish I could share your enthusiasm, matey. They’re not just prisoners. The bitch has been torturing them for information – flaying them, from the sound of it.”

Skipper paled. “What sort of information?”

“I don’t know all of it, but I do know this: she knows about this place. She knows we’re here.”

Skipper’s eyes widened as he leapt to his feet. The otter immediately whirled to his compatriots and started issuing orders. “Bula! Double the guard! Root, I want you and Streamer out on patrol now!” He turned back to Chibb. “Are they coming? Should be batten down the hatches?”

The robin shook his head. “No. They’re busy with their own fort.”

“Good. Still, we had best prepare.” The otter turned back to his crew. “Duckweed, fetch Timballisto and Whegg!”

Once the four of them had gathered in the main cave Chibb regaled everything he had observed and heard to the other three. As he talked the others, but never spoke until the robin had finished.

Timballisto rubbed his chin. “It’s certainly strange. Why would Tsarmina abandon a perfectly viable position just to start making a new fort somewhere else?” He turned to Whegg. “Any ideas?”

“My guess is she’s jumping at shadows and still thinks her brothers are the ones in command here.” The rat snorted. “She’s probably afraid of Martin creeping out and murdering her on the privy or something. If she moves somewhere new, she’ll feel safer.”

“Can’t we move into Kotir, then?” Chibb asked. “If they’re not using it we could probably take it over. It would be safer than staying out here, wouldn’t it?”

“We’d never hold it with our numbers, and even if we could, the moment Tsarmina learned we were cooped up in here she’d have us surrounded. And you can bet that they took all the food with them, so we’d have no stores and no way to forage for supplies.”

“So we stay here then.” Skipper Brought out a map and flattened it on the table. “You said that the Thousand-eyes were setting up right on the border?”

“Aye.” Chibb tapped the spot with his beak. “Right on the road.”

The otter gave a little grunt of disapproval. “Well, that definitely means what Martin said was true – we’re all marooned in Mossflower. There’s no way we could break through to get to Boar, or the other way around.”

“So the only option is to wait for Lord Verdauga, then?” Whegg frowned.

“But that might take too long!”  Timballisto slammed a paw down on the table. “By the time Verdauga comes back Mossflower might be nothing but ashes and we could all be hanging from the gallows.”

“What if we speed things up a bit?” Chibb interjected.

All three of them stared at him. “I’m…sorry?” Skipper ventured.

“What it we, uh, made the battle go a little faster?” The robin suddenly felt very small. “Not our battle, I mean. Theirs.”

“And how would we do that? Send up a magic sword that can cut through all evil or something?” Whegg looked incredulous.

“No, I just figured that since Boar can’t help _us_ he might be able to help _them_. Two armies could probably end a battle easier than one, couldn’t they?”

The other three looked at each other. “You know, it’s not the worst idea.” Timballisto glanced back at the map. “It would probably be fairly easy for them to follow the coast northwards and swing west.” He looked at Chibb. “You’d be willing to send the message, of course?”

  
“Of course.” He gave a lazy smile. “And I won’t even ask for some candied chestnuts.”

“Alright, then. Are we in agreement?”

Skipper and Whegg nodded.

“Then it’s settled. Chibb will head west at first light tomorrow.”


	30. Dreams

The night was red. Martin advanced, sword in one and knife in the other, hacking at shades. Every cut sent blood warm as fire splashing over his body and screams echoing through his ears, but still went forwards. As he went the shades took form, solidifying into creatures he knew, but friend and foe alike he cut them down.

_Mercy!_ Hisk begged before the cold steel slit his throat wide open for the second time. Martin could still see the gash mark from the first time.

_I yield, I yield!_ Not even paws raised in surrender saved Gonff from a sword straight through the chest.

_Please, I beg of you!_ A quick slash took Amber’s head clean off.

Martin continued, hacking and slashing, his bloodlust insatiable, until at the end he found his father. _Liar!_ Martin yelled. _Murderer!_ Verdauga tried to speak, to plead for mercy or talk his son down, but before he could get the words out Martin slit his throat and let his blood wash over him.

_Red. Everything’s red._ The sky, the blood, his paws, the steel, no matter where he looked Martin could only see red.

He licked his lips, tasted the blood, and smiled before continuing on.

 

Panting, terrified, Martin woke. _A dream?_ It had to have been – there was no way he actually went around on a killing spree, was there? He held his paws in front of his face; there was no blood. Nor was there any on his lips, even if he could still taste it. Martin tried to force himself to relax. _It was just a dream again, Martin. You haven’t murdered anybody._

_Well, besides those two corsairs_ , a little voice whispered in his ear.

_No._ He replied. _They were evil slavers. That wasn’t murder._ Maybe if he kept telling himself that, he’d start to actually believe it.

Martin rolled over and closed his eyes. They had a long march ahead of them, and he needed all the sleep he could get.

 

Tsarmina stood in front of him, claws bared and ready to strike, but he moved first and slashed across her legs. With a great howl the wildcat toppled to the ground, and now Martin was the one standing tall. It was funny, seeing his sister helpless on the ground in front of him. So funny, in fact, that the world turned red once more and Martin started laughing madly as he brought the sword down to her chest. His laugh grew higher and higher the more he stabbed, the more her blood pooled under her chest and wetted his paws, until finally his laugh was as high and cruel as hers, and it wasn’t Tsarmina on the ground, but one of the slaves he’d abandoned to Badrang’s lot…

He woke up again, shaking.

They started moving at first light in order to put as much distance between them and the corsairs as they could. Here the ground was much easier, as they were still in open country, working their way west with the sea at the back, but still Martin struggled to keep pace. Some of it was exhaustion after the past few days furious tracking and fighting, thanks to which his paws still felt like lead; another part was the lack of sleep. After the dream with Tsarmina and the slave he’d been too terrified to so much as close his eyes again for fear of what he’d see, and as a result now his eyelids felt twice as heavy and his head kept drooping steadily downwards as he stumbled across the same grass and rocks that his companions were crossing without any issue. _Go faster,_ he admonished himself, _or they’ll leave you behind_. He wasn’t going to make them stop over something as silly as a couple of bad dreams.

They walked onwards, the scent of the ocean gradually giving way to the pine trees in front of them. Martin barely noticed. _Rocks. Focus on and count the rocks you pass. That way you won’t fall asleep._ He’d passed a hundred and four so far. Scratch that, a hundred and five. Or were those two little rocks? If so, that would make the count…

“You alright back there, matey? You’ve been lagging all day.”

No, it was definitely one big rock. So that made _this_ 107, right?

“Martin? Mate?”

Hmmm…there was a rock that was clearly broken in half. Did that count as two rocks, or was it still just one?

“Hello? You listening?”

It probably made for one rock, but were any of the ones he’d counted earlier broken? He would need to –

“OI! MARTIN!”

Martin’s face shot back up. “Wha?”

Gonff was simultaneously annoyed and concerned. “About blooming time. You _sure_ you’re good to keep going? You’ve been shambling along like a drunkard all day.”

“I’m fine.” Martin realized he was swaying a bit and hoped it wasn’t noticeable.

The other mouse raised an eyebrow. “In all honesty, matey, you look half-dead. Do you want us to stop for a little while so you can rest?”

“No. We need to keep moving. We’re too exposed out in the open.” Martin started forwards. “There’s no time for sleep, even if I could.”

The other three exchanged a look as he walked.

“What did he mean when he said ‘even if I could’?” Gonff asked.

Gingivere just shrugged while Bella shook her head.

They made it another half an hour before Martin tripped on a massive root and sprawled to the ground. Bella rolled her eyes and hauled him to his feet. “Alright, that’s enough. We’re stopping before you kill yourself falling over every single tree root in the forest.”

“Bella, I’m _fine_.”

“Fine my paw. Martin, I understand that you want to press on as fast as possible, but you need to rest. Look at yourself; you can barely keep your eyes open.”

It was true, but he was loath to admit it, particularly when he knew that if they stopped he would fall asleep almost instantly, and if _that_ happened he’d start dreaming again. “I’ll be fine. Just pour some water on me, and I assure you I’ll be completely awake.”

The badger snorted. “Stop being obstinate. You wanted me along for my advice, and I’m advising you to sleep.”

“ _No._ ” The word came out sharper than he intended. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”

Before Bella could retort they both heard a rustling from behind them and turned to discover that Gingivere and Gonff were busy setting out lunch and starting a fire. Martin glared at his brother, who smiled back at him innocently.

“What? We’re hungry.”

“We don’t have time.”

“We do if I say we do.”

“And why is that?”

“Because last time I checked _I_ was father’s heir, not you, so what I say goes above what you do. Well, except for the finer points of cutting someone’s hand off.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Regardless, we’re still staying put until after lunch.”

“Fine.” Martin went over to a tree and sat down to wait. _I’m not going to sleep. I’m going to stay awake._ His eyes suddenly felt even heavier, though, and the bark he was sitting against was actually quite soft and comfortable…

_Maybe I’ll just rest my eyes for a moment._

Badrang’s corpse lay open in front of him. _How did he die?_ Martin wondered. _Did I kill him?_ But that wasn’t possible – he didn’t have any weapons on him.

Wait. No, he did, Martin realized as blood from the dagger in his right paw dripped down to his wrist. But it was strange. He didn’t _remember_ killing Badrang. All he could remember was feeling a white-hot anger and a sense that the world was covered in red. Martin looked back down at the corpse, which had changed into Boar the Fighter. _Did I kill him as well?_

“ _Yes._ ” A voice whispered. “ _Murderer. You killed them all. MURDERER!_ ”

Gasping for breath, his back slick with sweat, Martin woke up to find someone standing over him. Instinctively Martin reached for his scabbard, before stopping himself when he realized it was his brother.

“Gingivere? I thought you were making lunch.”

The wildcat looked relieved. “I was, but I, uh, was worried about you. You had me a little scared just now, you know, muttering ‘did I kill him’ and ‘murderer’ over and over.”

Martin, who had been pushing himself up, froze as his chest tightened. “I…can imagine how that would scare you.”

“Who were you talking about?”

All of a sudden it was too hard to look Gingivere in the eyes. “No one in particular.”

“Was it those corsairs?” Martin didn’t respond, but his clenched paws told Gingivere everything he needed to know. “Do you feel guilty about killing them?”

Martin nodded. The words caught in his throat, but he forced them out. “I feel like a murderer.”

“Was that really murder, though? I don’t think you really had a choice, did you?”

“That’s the thing – I did, sort of. It wasn’t just a ‘heat-of-the-moment’ sort of action, and that would’ve been bad enough. The rat was on the ground and completely dazed, but I didn’t even give him the chance to surrender.” Martin looked down at his paws. “I just went ahead and killed him.”

“You had to focus on the other –” Gingivere was cut off as his brother barreled onwards

“And that weasel, I know he was cruel, and he whipped you, and not a single creature is going to grieve his passing, but still, what does it say about me that it was so easy to sneak up behind someone and cut their throat wide open? To look at a living creature who had no idea I even existed and decide that his life needed to end?” He glanced up at his brother, looking fearful, as though he was terrified about himself. “What does all this say about me?”

“Truth be told, I have no idea. I can’t even hold a sword right, so I’ve never even really thought the morality of taking a life through before.” Gingivere shrugged. “And, honestly, the welt over my eye still burns as though it’s actually on fire, so forgive me if I don’t have too much sympathy for the creature that put it there. So all I’m going to say is this: you’re not our sister, if that’s what you’re worried about, and you’re not becoming her. You still care too much.” He gave his brother a little smile and held out his paw. “Now come have lunch.”

Martin took it. Their lunch had been scrounged around from whatever they could steal from the slave line along with some little bits from their own supplies, but it was still filling.

They were finally far enough north for the summer heat to not be quite as intense, and as there was a light breeze blowing in from the ocean things were actually quite pleasant. So pleasant, in fact, that Gingivere, Gonff and Martin were unable to resist sleeping. As they did so Bella kept watch, a light breeze tickling her fur as she lost herself in thoughts about what would happen once they reached lord Verdauga. She had no doubt that if they emerged victorious over whatever enemies the Thousand-Eye Army had engaged up here he would prove open to the idea of liberating Kotir; she knew that he had been entertaining his own doubts about Tsarmina for a fair few years, and she was reasonably sure that once he learned about her antics Verdauga would agree that he had to go.

No, her concerns were more over what would happen before they managed to earn that victory, if they even did. It was clear that Martin was greatly unnerved by his having killed the two corsairs, and although their escape from them had certainly been rather bloody, compared to the war they were heading towards would be even worse. Martin and Gingivere had been shielded from most of the violence back at Salamandastron, but here there would be no such luck.

_Will they be able to handle it, I wonder?_ Martin may have had the heart of a warrior, but he still placed a great deal of value on life. Gingivere, confident as he may have been as of late, was even gentler. Meanwhile, although Gonff certainly was rather irrepressible and able to bounce back quickly from hardship, she still worried about them. _All I can do is guide them and pray that they make it out safe and as whole as they can be._

She wished her father was here, Bella realized; he would know the words to set everyone at ease and prepare them for the battle to come. But she was Bella, not Boar, so all she could do was let them rest a bit.

She finally woke them up after about an hour, gently rustling the three back into wakefulness. Gonff yawned and lazily stretched himself the rest of the way.

“I take it we have to march again?” Gonff asked. When Bella answered in the affirmative, he groaned. “And just when I was having a nice dream, too. I had an entire plate of treacle tart and a keg of ale all to myself. But, I guess there’s no sense waiting around now that we’re all up, is there.” The mouse finally hopped to his feet. “Lead on, fair badger.”

“Not so fast,” she replied a bit exasperatedly, “we still have to pack everything back up.”

They did so, and Gonff used the opportunity to talk a bit with Martin, whose waking hadn’t been quite as fitful as the last one. “You feeling any better, matey?”

“If you’re talking about my dreams, they were still bloody.” Martin finished stuffing a handful of acorns into his back. “Something tells me that it’s going to be a bit before I stop.” Surprisingly, after he said that he smiled. “But they’re just dreams. I’ll get over them.”

Gonff clapped him on the back. “Good to hear it!”

 

They walked on through the woods. It was quiet besides the sound of leaves and pines rustling in the summer breeze, so Gonff decided to take the opportunity to sing.

 “ _Oh, the woods are warm and green,_

_As heroes come walk through._

_Through travel that has seen_

_Us stride with purpose true._

_For we have gone to find,_

_O’er the hill and ‘twixt the tree,_

_The way to fix our bind,_

_And make Mossflower free!_

He finished and bowed to his companions. “Not bad for someone who can barely read, no?”

Martin gave a little clap. “Gonff, I swear you sing well enough that one day you’ll charm the britches off some mousemaid.”

Gonff winked. “That’s the idea, matey!”

Bella gaped at him, scandalized, while the other three snickered.

They marched onwards for another hour before Martin bade them to stop, sniffing the air as he held up his paw. “Smoke.” He announced. “No more than half a mile ahead of us, I’d wager.”

“Is it the forest?” Bella asked.

Martin took a deep breath, inhaling. There was a bit of woodsmoke to be sure, but there was something else. He frowned and sniffed again. There was no mistaking it. “I smell…spice. And…venison?”

Gingivere whistled. “Quite the sense of smell you’ve got there. I still can’t smell anything.”

Martin’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. “Gonff, with me. We don’t know if they’re friend or foe.” He steeled himself for the possibility of another fight, of getting more blood on his paw.

The four of them crept forwards, Martin and Gonff in front swords in paw. When they were close enough to hear voices they stopped and the two mice crouched behind a rock.

“Do we go for ‘em?” Gonff asked.

Martin shook his head. “No. We need to be careful. We don’t know who it is or how many.”

So the two listened in silence as someone began to speak.

“Apparently the squirrels reported something interesting this morning – there’s a slave caravan working its way northwards. Word is that it’s being led by a nasty stoat.”

“Think it’s reinforcements for the fat ferret up here?”

“Nah, don’t think so.”

“Still, could be trouble. Think they’ve told Ashleg?”

“Probably. They told Lady Amber, you can be sure of that at least.”

Martin and Gonff exchanged grins: they were Thousand-Eyes, by the sound of it. Martin waved Gingivere and Bella forwards while mouthing ‘ _friends_ ’, and once the four of them were more-or-less together Gingivere and Bella stepped out into the clearing.

“Hello there!” Martin chirped. “Glad we found you. Would you mind taking us to our father? Oh, and there’s another mouse and a badger coming right along with us; could you take them as well?”

They had happened across a ferret and a mouse sitting around a campfire, who at the sight of Martin and Gingivere emerging from the forest managed to transition from eating to grabbing their spears to saluting in the space of roughly two seconds. Too dumbstruck by this sudden development to speak, all either of them did was nod dumbly.


	31. Greeneyes Reunited

After spending so many days alone during their journey north, broken up only by their two days in the slave line, it was strange to be around civilization – at least, insofar as a tent city of soldiers could be considered ‘civilization’ – again. The evening air was alive with the shouts of several hundred Thousand-Eyes, either to share the news about their visitors or just as part of regular camp life, and as the four travelers were escorted through the camp they smelt the aroma of several dozen cookfires.

“By the fur,” Gonff muttered as they walked past three rats huddled around a cauldron of soup, “even the soldiers eat like blooming lords, don’t they?”

Gingivere took an exploratory sniff and immediately recoiled in disgust. “What’s IN that, burnt turnips?” He turned to Gonff. “I assure you, that’s not exactly lordly food. We’ll get you a proper spread tonight, I promise.”

“Assuming our father lets us have dinner, that is.” Martin interjected.

“I think we’re a bit past the age where he’ll deny us supper, Martin.”

“Ordinarily, yes; us turning up out of nowhere in the middle of an active warzone, I’m not so sure. It honestly depends on how angry we find him.”

‘How angry’, it turned out when their escort deposited them outside of Verdauga’s tent before scurrying away as fast as their legs could take them, meant ‘angry enough to emerge with a look black enough to curdle even the freshest milk. The soldiers around them cleared out almost instantaneously, Gonff noticed. _Oh, boy. This isn’t going to be pleasant, is it?_

Both Gingivere and Martin waited meekly for their father to start talking. “So a few minutes ago Bucktail came to me with a story that two of his unit had received some unexpected visitors at their campfire. When he told me who they were I was surprised, and since then there has been only one question on my mind: why in the _fucking hellgates_ did my sons drag an old badger and some other mouse from Moss Town – I’m assuming that’s where he’s from – a hundred and fifty miles northwards?”

“We, uh, needed to speak with you.” Martin’s voice had suddenly gotten rather tiny.

“You needed to speak with me.” It was plain the wildcat wasn’t exactly impressed by their reasoning. “And you didn’t just send a bird north because…”

“We didn’t want to endanger Chibb or any of the others, so we decided it would be better if we came ourselves.”

“A lofty goal. Certainly why you brought a _woman older than I am a hundred and fifty miles out of Mossflower without so much as a bedroll to sleep on._ ”

“We _had_ some!” Gingivere protested. “They were just stolen by the corsairs.”

Verdauga blinked, surprised. “ _Corsairs?_ ”

“We ran into a group of them led by this stoat named Badrang a few days ago.” Bella explained. “The captured all of us, save Martin, and if it weren’t for him, we would still be chained up in the stoat’s slave line. Your son managed to defeat Badrang in a duel and won the three of us our freedom.”

“They took you as _slaves?_ ” Some of the anger had drained out of Verdauga’s face (along with all of its color, making the wildcat look even older than he was) and was replaced with horror. “By the fur.” He looked at Martin. “And you…incredible.” He shook his head. “Still, that doesn’t answer the question about why you decided to travel here in the first place.”

“It’s because of me, your lordiness.” _Lordiness? Really, Gonff?_ He wanted to slap himself. “I mean, uh, milord. The hedgehog family I live with are starving so I tried to st – ah, I mean, uh, I tried to see if I could get some food from Kotir, and while I was there, I ran into your son, and from there things sort of got out of hand.”

Verdauga decided to ignore the mouse’s admission of theft for the moment. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I took Martin into town to show him how things were, and the next thing you know Tsarmina – your lady daughter, I mean, don’t mean to give any offense – was trying to have us killed, so Martin and Gingivere and me decided to sneak north, and Bella wanted to come along so that –” _And now you’re rambling in front oflLord Verdauga, you bloody idiot. Close your mouth before you embarrass yourself._

The wildcat looked at his sons. “Is this true?” When they both nodded, he sighed. “I suppose we should discuss this in my tent.”

While Verdauga shouted for a barrel of ale and a platter of bread. the other four took seats around a table just inside the tent. A large map of the area covered in little figures of soldiers and weapons carpeted the table, and Martin stared at it intently until his father sat down at the head of the table. He tossed the four of them a goblet of each before downing one for himself and handed each of them a loaf. “Alright, now that we have some privacy, I want you to explain.”

Verdauga sat in silence as he listened to their story, his face showing no emotion save for when Gonff spoke of how Tsarmina nearly had his tongue ripped out and when Bella regaled their experience in the slave line, the latter of which led to them stopping for a few minutes and calling for a healer after he crushed his goblet in his paw. By the time Martin finished with an explanation of how he’d tracked the smell of cookfires through the woods, the sun had almost completely set, cloaking all their faces in shadows.

“Right, um, I’m really sorry for stealing from your castle.” Gonff looked at the old wildcat and gave a weak little smile. “I didn’t take anything that wasn’t ours to begin with, though. Well, excepting for the wine.”

Verdauga, who had gotten up to retrieve a candle and a fire striker, returned to his seat and within moments they were all bathing in a flickering, orange light. Only then did he turn his attention to the mouse. “You were starving because of my daughter. I can’t condemn you for acting out of desperation, particularly when children are involved.”

Gonff realized that Verdauga wasn’t even looking at him, instead staring intently into the candlelight. He noticed that the wildcat was shaking and seemed determined not to look at any of them.

Bella reached out a paw in comfort. “I’m sure that this comes as a shock –”

Verdauga slammed the table so hard that all their drinks fell over and spilled onto the ground. Then, bending down, he grabbed his own goblet off the floor and hurled it out of the tent. They heard it shatter on the ground with a muffled _crash_. “Bella, where have you been? I should have seen this coming.” He looked at her for a moment before turning away, ashamed by the outburst. “I’ve had tents prepared for you. You and Gonff, go find Amber. I want to speak with my sons in private.”

The mouse and the badger exchanged a look of uncertainty before excusing themselves.

Once they were gone Verdauga immediately started to weep. “How could she? How _could_ she?”

Neither Gingivere nor Martin were quite sure what to say, so they kept their distance. Their father looked at them and shook his head. “I suppose I should have seen this coming when she threatened to kill you two.” Verdauga buried his head in his paws. “I’m a fool. A damned fool and a damned failure.”

Gingivere and Martin looked at each other, still not sure what they were supposed to do. “You’re not a failure, father.” Martin felt like it was the right thing to say. “Sometimes you just can’t change a creature.”

Verdauga just shook his head and continued to weep.

“Martin’s right. You did all you could for her, and besides, the two of us turned out alright, didn’t we?”

“ _No!_ Verdauga stood up, nearly toppling over from all the drink, before walking over to his bed and grabbing something from the table next to it. He stared at whatever he was holding as he continued. “I made a promise to your mother, Gingivere. That I would take care of both of you.”

“My mother?” Gingivere knew next to nothing about her, save that she had been named ‘Mina’.

Verdauga nodded and returned to his sons, wordlessly holding out the object he was holding. It was a small painting of a wildcat, smiling up at them and watching out of warm hazel eyes. In the flickering candlelight, her portrait almost seemed to move.

Gingivere had a massive lump in his throat. _She looks like Tsarmina. The face is softer, and the smile is gentler, but there’s no mistake_. Almost reverently, he took it in his paw for a moment before passing it to his brother, who studied it. “She’s beautiful.” He whispered.

For the first time since the two had arrived, their father smiled. “She was.” He took the painting back and carefully placed it down on the table, watching it in the candlelight. “She would have been proud of both of you. I just wish I could say the same about your sister.”

Wordlessly, the two each took a paw in their own. Father and sons were quiet for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Verdauga was able to tear his thoughts away from his wife. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do about your sister until we finish the battle up here.”

“And how _is_ the battle going?” Martin asked.

“Not well, I’m afraid. Yes, we were able to smash the vermin host a month ago, but since then they were able to reform and regroup with another band. We’ve been chasing them down ever since, unable to catch them in battle and put an end to this. We’ve enough food to last us a while longer, but so do they, and unless when Mask comes back, he brings some information we can use we’ll be chasing the hordes until winter.”

“Mask?” Gingivere had never heard that name before.

“An otter. Skipper said he was the best spy in Mossflower, and I haven’t had any reason to doubt him so far. He has a way of disguising himself as another creature so well that he could probably fool their own kin. I have him scouting ahead right now, to try and see if he can find any trace of our enemies and find out what he can of their plans.” Verdauga stifled a yawn. “But enough about strategy for now – it’s getting late, and from the sound of it you four have had _quite_ the journey. There’s a tent waiting for you just outside. It used to be one for the regular soldiers, so I doubt it has the most charming of smells, but it’s large enough that you two can stretch out.” The three of them stood up, but before Martin and Gingivere could leave their father scooped them up and held them tightly to his chest. After he let go Verdauga looked at them with a face full of regret. “I’m sorry that it had to come to this. And that you two had to endure…if I ever get my paws on that damned stoat I’ll rip him apart.”

Martin had to suppress a snort. “I think if that time ever comes, father, there will be a queue for that privilege.” _And will I be part of it?_ He started following Gingivere out into the cool night.

“Martin?” Verdauga called, stopping him in his tracks.

“Yes, father?” What was _this_ about?

“I know what it feels like to take a life. If you ever need to talk to me about it, just let me know. I’m here for you.”

“I know you are.” Martin gave his father a quick nod and stepped out into the darkness.

***

The tent, as it turned out, didn’t smell quite as bad as either of them had feared. That, or maybe after their journey north they were inured to the smell of sweat. Martin and Gingivere sat in the dark, listening to the chirping crickets and the dwindling sounds of camp.

“I have to admit,” Martin started, “even with the profanity that went a lot better than I thought it would. Especially considering the way he glred at us. I guess we managed to dodge a lecture for once.”

Gingivere scoffed. “I think the lecture was less ‘dodged’ and more ‘temporarily delayed’. Father’s probably just holding off until we’re somewhere more private.”

“Why?”

“Well, right now we’re amongst the Thousand-Eyes. Many of these creatures are men and women we’re like to command or rule someday, and if I were them, I wouldn’t really respect a leader who got talked down to by their father like they were a child.”

Martin thought it over. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“You know, we didn’t confront him about Salamandastron, did we?”

“There will be plenty of time for that. I don’t think talking to father about that while the shock of Tsarmina’s rule is still fresh.”

“Fair enough.”

The two brothers lay in silence after that, and soon the gentle fluttering of the breeze and the quiet trill of insects lulled them to sleep.

***

In their own tent, Bell and Gonff also listened to the quiet night.

“You know, Bella, I have to admit – old lord Verdauga surprised me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. All this time I thought he would be more or less a slightly more reasonable Tsarmina. The sort of creature that was too haughty for anyone he deemed unimportant to even say a word to him. I didn’t expect him to be so, well, _normal_. To be truthful, it was a bit of a letdown to meet him and watch him act like any other father in Mossflower.”

Bella had to laugh. “Yes, bringing along his children will do that. Trust me – Verdauga can be rather lordly and rather aloof, but throw his sons into that and, as you can see, that fades away.”

Gonff laughed as well. “He seemed sad, though. Even before we told him about Tsarmina.”

In the darkness, Bella’s smile immediately died. “Verdauga’s suffered a great deal of misfortune in his days, from what I hear ever since he was a child. His brother was a cruel beast, from what I’ve gathered, and since then, well, you know about the losses he’s suffered.” She stared out into the gloom. “Some days I think his children are the only things keeping him going,” she added quietly, “and now he’s losing even that.”

Gonff had no response. So instead he just lay there, on the cool earth, and thought about the family he’d gotten himself mixed up with.


	32. Thousand-Eye camp

Martin woke up panting again; this time he’d dreamed it was Gingivere’s mother he was hacking to pieces. _That didn’t happen_ , he reminded himself, _look at your paws_. He forced himself to look down at them. _See? No blood. They’re just dreams_.

Once his breath had eased somewhat Martin sat up and looked around. Sunlight streamed through the flap of the tent, and off in the distance he thought he could smell the faint aroma of nutmeg and roasting fish. Gingivere was still snoring quietly in his bed, so Martin crept out of the tent as softly as he could. When he stepped outside, he saw Gonff emerging from his and Bella’s tent, stretching his arms and still looking half-asleep.

“M-morning.” Gonff yawned. “What’s for breakfast?”

Martin took another sniff in the air; it was definitely nutmeg on fish, that was for sure. “Something better than we’ve been eating the last few days, and no mistake.”

“Good. I’m sick of eating whatever Bella pulls off the ground. Shall we be off?”

The two walked through the camp until they found the origin of the food scent. Huddled around the cookfire was a group of soldiers and a rat in a captain’s cloak Martin couldn’t recall ever meeting before.

The rat bowed his head upon seeing the two mice. “Lord Martin.”

“Just Martin is fine. And you are?”

“Whitear, my lord. Captain Whitear, if it please you. Have you come to eat with us?” Without waiting for a reply he walked over to the fire and pulled off a head of trout, almost knocking his cloak into the blaze in the process. Afterwards he dashed to the other side of the fire to grab a plate, once again just narrowly avoiding setting himself on fire.

“Hey, be careful!” A pine marten called out as Whitear ran across the fire for the third time. “If you’re going to turn yourself into a candle wait until we’ve all had time to leave at least!”

“Banya, do you think I’m an idiot? I’m not going to catch myself on fire.” The rat slowed down all the same as he returned to his seat.

Gonff chuckled as he grabbed a bit of food for himself. “I don’t remember seeing you before. Where are you from?”

“Up in the mountains. Me and my wife – meaning Banya, by the way – lived there with a band of about fifty creatures before Bowfleg and his horde came wandering by. I’ll admit we weren’t exactly the friendliest of bands, and we were seriously considering joining him, but what his lieutenant did to my friend Shang when she spoke against the idea was…” Whitear’s expression turned haunted.

“After that there was no chance of us working with them,” Banya continued, “but there were too many of them for us to fight, so we ran instead. A day or so after that we bumped into lord Verdauga and told him about it, and we wound up joining the Thousand-Eye army to get a bit of revenge.”

“What was his name?” Martin asked. “Bowfleg’s lieutenant, I mean.”

Whitear and Banya looked at each other, the rat turning even paler. His wife grabbed his paw and squeezed it gently in reassurance.

“Swartt.” Whitear made the word half a whisper and half a curse. “His name was Swartt Sixclaw.”

After that everyone ate their meals in silence, Martin pausing every so often to mull over this new information. The only other creature he’d ever known to inspire such a visceral reaction was his sister; was Swartt someone of the same ilk and with the same penchant for cruelty? He wondered if his father knew anything more.

Martin and Gonff had just finished their breakfast when a weasel came up to them. “Come. Lord Verdauga wants to speak with you.” 

“Should we wake Bella and my brother?”

“Foulwhisker’s already seeing to that. Come on. It’s urgent.”

Martin have Whitear and Banya a little wave goodbye before following the weasel to his father’s tent. Gingivere and Bella had gotten there first, although judging by their disheveled fur and Gingivere’s glazed eyes Martin doubted that the two were actually completely awake.

Verdauga stood at the front of the tent, alongside a ferret Martin didn’t recognize. At least, he _thought_ it was a ferret; there was something… off about him, although Martin couldn’t really put his paw on it.

Upon noticing his observer the ferret smiled. “So, _you’re_ Luke the Warrior’s son.” He gave a little bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord. My name is Riverwyte, although everyone not named Warthorn calls me ‘Mask’ most of the time.”

Gingivere’s eyes widened. “You’re an _otter_?”

“Aye, at least when I don’t need to be something else.”

Verdauga cleared his throat. “Now that my other son is here” – Martin noticed that his father had placed a slight emphasis on the word _my_ and felt a little twinge in his stomach – “it may be best if we started planning out our next strategy. Were you able to uncover anything?”

“More than I expected, actually. As it happens, old Bowfleg is _quite_ the talker once he’s had a few cups too many. He walked over to Verdauga’s map of the region and began drawing on it with a quill. Right now the horde is encamped at this mountain up here, but when I left them they were getting ready to head westward to this gorge over _here_. If we move quickly, we should be able to catch them right as they’re settling in.”

“How does he march? Does he send scouts?”

“Twenty ahead and twenty behind. He also has twenty on each side marching parallel to the horde to keep a look out for signs of trouble. From what I could gather, the patrol on this side of the horde will be commanded by a stoat named Aggal. Tough old fellow – I saw him throw a spear through a target from what looked like about 280 feet and hit it straight through the middle.” Mask drew a single line down the map and then drew two smaller ones on either side. “This is how they’ll march. If we act stealthily enough, we should be able to eliminate the western patrol before the main formation even knows we’re here.”

Verdauga nodded. “I see. Once Ashleg and Lady Amber get here we’ll begin drawing up a plan to attack.” As the two soldiers present jogged off to find them the wildcat turned back to Mask. “What else did you learn?”

“All the patrols are under the command of one of Bowfleg’s lieutenants, and if you’ll forgive me saying this my lord, if I get the opportunity to kill him I’ll take it regardless of our actual plan. Make no mistake: Swartt Sixclaw is a monster, and he needs to die.”

“Captain Whitear mentioned him!” Gonff jumped into the conversation. “When he said his name it was like he was seeing a ghost.”

“I’m not surprised. Not after seeing what he did to that poor badger.”

“He…has a badger?” Bella’s voice had a strangled quality to it.

“Aye. A young fellow by the look of him, not much older than any of you three.”

A tendril of ice worked its way up Martin’s stomach and tightened as he watched Bella’s eyes widen and her whole body begin to shake.

“What did he look like?” Her voice was quivering even harder than her body.

“There was this stripe down his back, like solid gold. Every time I looked at him it was like I was seeing a ray of the sun shining down his body.”

Upon hearing his answer Bella raised a paw to her mouth. “It’s him!” She whispered. “By the fur – it’s him!” Then, trembling with emotion, her legs gave way and the great badger sank to her knees.

“Bella!” Ashleg and Amber had entered the tent while Mask was describing Swartt’s prisoner, and upon seeing Bella fall the squirrel ran over to her. “Bella, what happened?”

The badger was oblivious to the squirrel currently holding her paw. “Sunflash. After all these years… my boy… _my boy_ …” She finally noticed Amber and promptly scooped her up into a hug. “I’ll get to see him again. _After all this time_.” Realizing she was slowly crushing the poor squirrel, Bella released her before giving Mask a quick – and far gentler – hug and excusing herself.

“Now, Denn said that Mask had some information we could use?” Ashleg asked while Amber massaged her ribs.

Mask nodded and gestured to the map while repeating everything he’d told Verdauga. After he was finished Amber studied the map, frowning. “This Swartt fellow – does he march with the patrols or in the middle?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were you able to get names for all the creatures leading the scouts and patrols?” Martin had a theory and he wanted to check it.

“I was. Do you want to know the other three?”

Martin shook his head. “No. That’s not important. What _is_ important is that there are four of them. And if they all answer to Swartt, that means he’s like to be in the middle.”

Ashleg thought about it and smiled. “Not bad. That makes a good deal of sense.”

“Then the next question is: where in the middle can we find him?”

Verdauga sighed. “We can’t worry about that right now.”

“Can’t worry about it? My lord, _Swartt has Bella’s son_. And no offense, but you haven’t seen what I have. If you did, you would know that we can’t leave –”

“Mask,” Verdauga cut him off sharply, “I understand how you feel. I want to rescue the boy just as much as you do, but we can’t charge in unprepared, and the first step to _get_ prepared is to eliminate Bowfleg’s patrols. Before we strike at him, we need to blind him.”

“Verdauga’s right, Mask. We need to focus on the sides for now. Once we’ve opened up a path to the center, _then_ we can see about saving Bella’s son.” Amber clenched her paw. “I hate it, but freeing him needs to wait. Your brother would say the same if he were here.”

“Moving onwards, we need to think about the best way to ambush them.” Ashleg glanced back at the map. It looks as though the foothills might be a good place. There’s not much cover for them to hide behind, and if need be, we could attack from height and rain arrows down on them. I imagine that your squirrels can make the climb well enough?” He glanced at Amber, who nodded.

“We can also locate the main column while we’re at it.” Verdauga pointed out. “If fortune’s on our side, we may be able to plan out another strike immediately after we finish with the patrol. What say all of you?” There was a chorus of murmurs in assent, although Mask remained silent. “Then it’s settled. Amber, Ashleg, notify the army that they are to begin disassembling camp. I want us marching by dusk.”

“Yes, my lord.” Both of them bowed and left to make their own preparations.

“Any further orders for me?” Mask still sounded angry.

“No. You’ve done well, and I thank you for everything. Go see what the cooks can rustle up – you must be hungry.”

“Perhaps later.” Mask gave a stiff nod and left, leaving Verdauga, Martin, Gingivere, and Gonff to listen to him stomping off. Partway through they heard what sounded like a log being knocked over, followed by an angry shout.

Verdauga sat down and rubbed his paw across his face. “I can’t believe it. We find Sunflash after all this time and we can’t even do anything to save him.”

“It’s only for now, though, isn’t it?” Gonff tried to sound reassuring. “We’ll rescue him as soon as we smash the horde, won’t we?”

“We can only hope so, Gonff.” He looked at the mouse. “That is your name, correct?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. I had hoped I would remember the name of my son’s friend. Now, Gonff, I ask you: we are about to enter battle. Do you intend to fight, or stay behind with the rest of the army?”

He shrugged. “I hadn’t really thought about it, I suppose.”

“I suggest you make your decision soon, for there’s not much time left.” He looked at Martin. “Normally this is where I would order you to stay behind and keep yourself safe, but after hearing of your exploits I’ll let you make the decision.”

“I’ll fight.”

“I assumed as much. Very well then, we shall fight side-by-side.” Finally, he turned to Gingivere. “You will remain here.”

“Hang on a moment!” Gingivere protested. “I want to do what I can too!”

“Gingivere, we’re heading into battle. It’s not safe for you there.”

“Father, I survived everything Martin and Gonff did just fine, and besides, I’m older than Martin and you’re still letting him go along with you.”

“Son,” Verdauga spoke with an air of exasperated patience, “your brother was able to best a stoat twice his size in single combat. He can handle himself on the battlefield; can you say the same?” When Gingivere didn’t respond Verdauga took him by the shoulder. “You’ve been brave, son, no one can deny that. But bravery doesn’t mean rushing blindly into a situation you cannot handle. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father.” Gingivere felt like a little kid again.

“Good cat. Now, if you three excuse me, I must prepare myself. Martin, Gonff, I suggest you visit the armorer and see what he can fit you with.”

***

After spending an hour with a rather surly weasel by the name of Tijo, the two mice managed to assemble a full set of light armor that was at least a half-decent fit. As they walked back through the camp, they encountered Mask furiously pacing outside a tent. When he saw Martin the otter stalked over to them. “You understand, don’t you? We can’t just leave Bella’s son to rot because it’s easier for us. How could lord Verdauga even _think_ about leaving an innocent creature in slavery?”

“I…” All the words caught in Martin’s throat and he had to fight against the urge to look away.

“What is it? You don’t agree with your father, do you? He’s a _slave_.”

“I know that. It’s just…” Now, instead of forcing himself to look the otter straight in the eye, Martin found himself looking anywhere but.

Before Mask could say something else Gonff grabbed the other mouse by the arm. “Come on. We need to get our things together and meet back with your father.”

“What? Oh, right?” Relieved by the excuse to leave Martin jogged off to his tent.

 

Gingivere sat on a stump a little ways south of the camp, fuming. _How could father dismiss me like that? I didn’t come all this way just to be treated like a child_. It was ridiculous – why couldn’t he, the heir to Mossflower, help defend it? It wasn’t fair that he had to stay behind while his little brother got to fight. _But then Martin’s always been the favorite, hasn’t he? Father’s always liked him best, maybe that’s why Tsarmina_ –

Gingivere stopped himself. _No. Father’s right. I can barely even use a kitchen knife without almost cutting off my own whiskers, let alone swing a sword and thrust a spear. I have no place on the battlefield._ But then what was his place?

It was a puzzle, but before he could figure it out Gingivere heard the sound of wings flapping from the south and stood up. _What now?_ Was this some new enemy? Had Bowfleg outsmarted them even as they were planning their own attack?

Gingivere tensed for a confrontation, but when the origin of the flapping appeared out of the forests he relaxed. It was Chibb, that irritating robin they’d met as they were leaving Mossflower. “If you’ve come for your chestnuts, I don’t have any!” He called up. “Wait until we’re back in Kotir!”

Chibb landed next to him and glared up at the wildcat. “Are you serious, cat? I come all this way to deliver a message and your first thought is to complain?” He started hopping past Gingivere in a manner that struck the wildcat as rather imperious. “Well, as it happens, I’m not here to speak to you. I have a message for your father.”

“Well, as it happens, he’s busy right now. We’re all preparing for war, so unless you think what you have to say is more important, you’ll just have to wait for him to finish getting ready.”

“Oh, but it _is_ important enough!” He smiled up at Gingivere. “Unless you think that Boar the Fighter coming north with the entire Long Patrol is unimportant, of course.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for missing two straight updates. I had a fair bit of writers' block, as well as all of the packing and travel that comes with heading back to college, and as such my writing sort of fell by the wayside. Hopefully, hopefully, I can get back on pace from now on.
> 
> A couple notes about the chapter:  
> I'm aware that I'm moving up Swartt by a couple generations, considering that in the original books he's a contemporary of Gonff's great-granddaughter Bryony, but in the interests of story - and the fact that I really wanted to put Swartt in the story - I'm fudging the timeline a bit.   
> Also, on a lighter note, I'll admit that I'm rather starting to like the idea of Chibb and Gingivere absolutely loathing each other and getting into a bit whenever they meet. That being said, if y'all think it's annoying, let me know.


	33. Battle in the Night

Verdauga’s tent had been given over to a large diagram of the area surrounding the enemy patrol, on which the vermin soldiers were placed in the middle and the Thousand-Eyes placed on the side in their respective groups. Verdauga himself stood over the diagram, pacing to-and-fro as he explained the battle plans to the assembled captains, occasionally pausing to enumerate a point.

At the moment, he was explaining how they intended to eliminate any stragglers that might try and retreat to the main horde. “Splitnose, while the main group under Ashleg and I strike from their west I want you to circle around their south. That way we can cut off any fleeing creatures that might escape our main thrust. Take nine of our best with you; that should be more than enough.

“Yes, my lord. We’ll cut ‘em off and chop ‘em down.”

“Good to hear. Now, in order to make sure that we have the element of surprise, Amber has suggested that we –”

Their strategizing was cut off by the sound of some angry yelling from outside.

“Let me through! I need to speak with everyone in there!”

“Oi, it’s a war council, you can’t just barge in without permission!”

“But they need to know what the robin told me! It’s important!”

“Listen, I’m sure it is, but lord Verdauga is very busy, and I simply cannot just let anyone in who wishes to talk with him.”

“I’M HIS BLOODY SON YOU IMBICILE! I NEED TO TALK WITH MY FATHER RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”

Apparently, that did the trick, as a few seconds after his last shout Gingivere burst into the tent, panting and looking thoroughly disheveled. “Permission my paw.” He grumbled. “Why can’t I talk with my own father?” Oblivious to everyone staring at him he walked straight up to his father. “Chibb the robin was looking for you. There’s something you need to know. Boar’s coming with the entire Long Patrol.  They’ll be here in a few days if the weather’s good and Chibb can navigate.”

All those present looked at each other. “The badger’s coming?” Whitear asked. “How many does he command?”

“One hundred and eighty hares, as of his last message at least.” Ashleg rubbed his temple in thought. “that brings our total strength up to about six hundred and thirty, correct? That gives us a good hundred and fifty more creatures than our enemies do.” He turned to Verdauga. “Should we cancel our attack on the scouts? Perhaps we should wait for them to arrive before we make our move.”

Amber spoke up. “If you don’t mind me saying, Ashleg, we should continue on as planned. Gingivere, you said that the Long Patrol is still a few days away, correct?”

“They are.”

“And that’s assuming the weather cooperates, which isn’t always certain this far north.” She shook her head. “By the time Boar gets here our opportunity to strike may have passed. I’m not suggesting we attack the main horde without him, but if we wait for the Long Patrol to arrive before making any sort of move we’ll have wasted the opportunity we now have.”

Verdauga nodded. “Agreed. The attack will proceed as planned. Gingivere, find Chibb and thank him for the news.” He smiled. “And thank you for bringing this to my attention. Even if you _did_ interrupt us.”

Gingivere blushed. “Sorry, father.”

***

The time finally came for them to march. Martin was in his tent, fumbling with the straps of the greave on his left leg, when Bella came calling.

“Your father’s looking for you. He wants you by his side during the attack.”

“Tell him I’ll be along once I get this blasted thing on.” Martin slid his brigandine over his head as he spoke. He grabbed his helmet and tried to put that on as well, fighting with the straps until Bella took pity on him and pulled it off.

“May I make a suggestion? I would go without the helmet if I were you. You fight by using your agility, correct? A helmet like this will only cut off most of your vision, and for someone like you that could prove fatal.”

“Where’d you learn all that?”

“My father is one of the greatest warriors of our time, remember? It would have been difficult for me to _not_ learn it.” She sighed. “I had hoped to teach this to Sunflash one day, but…”

Martin paused fighting with his sword belt long enough to give the badger a smile. “Maybe you still can.”

“I can only hope so.” She gently placed the helmet down on Martin’s bed and tried to remind herself that she would see her son before long. “Well, I had best tell your father you’ll be along shortly.”

“Thank you, Bella.”

Once he was alone again Martin withdrew his father’s sword and studied it. _Am I going to have to kill someone again?_ It was a distinct possibility – would it be easier this time, or harder? _Which is better? How easy did YOU find it?_ He supposed that that was just one more thing he’d never know. _Unless I ask father._

Of course, that would mean confronting him, which seemed almost impossible these days…

_No. Tomorrow morning, once we’re back at camp and the scouts are gone, I’ll ask him about everything. About Salamandastron, about Luke the Warrior._

Martin took a steadying breath, made sure his outfit was properly fixed and secure, and marched out into the twilight.

Surprisingly, Gonff had gotten there first. “I was starting to wonder if you changed your mind, matey. What took you so long?”

“Getting all this on took a while. I’ve never worn armor before.”

“Neither have I, but you didn’t see me taking forever.”

“You’re wearing a hauberk. That’s different.”

Verdauga cleared his throat. “Since we’re all here, I suggest we get moving before we waste any more time.” Raising his sword he turned to face the rest of the soldiers. “Thousand-Eyes, MARCH!”

And so, the forty of them that had been chosen started forwards. The armor was, oddly enough, not all that hard to march in; it couldn’t have weighed much more than three or four pounds more than their supplies had. _I guess marching up here had its uses after all_.

They marched in silence, and Martin took the opportunity to observe everyone around him. In the front was his father, jaw set tight in concentration; right behind him was Ashleg, looking as though he’d rather be at camp and looking as though he was very much feeling his years; off to their right was Splitnose, anxious to play his part and please his lord; to their right was Amber, looking determined; behind them was Whitear, who looked ready for revenge. All of them seemed nervous, which oddly enough Martin found somewhat relieving. _It’s not just me._ He looked over at Gonff and realized that the other mouse looked like he was going to vomit, so he slowed his pace a bit until they were side-by-side.

“What am I _doing_ here?” Gonff whispered. “I’m just someone who works in the fields. I should’ve stayed at camp.”

Martin tried to project a confident face. “You’ll be alright. Just stay by me and my father. We’ll keep you safe.”

Gonff nodded queasily. “I wonder if this is how they all feel back in Mossflower?”

Martin had almost forgotten about them. “Maybe. We have better odds than them, though. Try and remember that.”

“Quiet, both of you.” Whitear shushed them. “You’ll give us away.”

They marched onwards for another half hour before they heard sounds in the distance. Amber took a pair of squirrels and dashed ahead through the treetops, and when she came back she reported that the scouting party was perhaps a quarter mile ahead.

Verdauga nodded. “Splitnose, circle around. Amber, get your squirrels ready to fire on my signal. Ashleg, Whitear, Martin, Gonff, to me. The rest of you, follow.

They crept forwards. Through the gloom Martin could begin to distantly make out a few shapes, which gradually dissolved into a mixture of rats and weasels, along with a fox for good measure.

They stopped just short of their opponents’ sight. Verdauga placed a comforting paw on Martin’s shoulder before raising his other paw in the air.

From behind him, Martin could hear the tightening of multiple bowstrings. One breath passed in which they were all silent, then Verdauga motioned forwards with his raised paw while dropping the other to his scabbard.

As one, the arrows _thrummed_ overhead. The majority of them shot off into the darkness, but one or two managed to hit home, throwing their enemies into confusion, a confusion that turned to chaos when thirty trained soldiers burst out of the trees and fell upon them.

Martin forced himself to keep pace with his father, not trusting himself to stay behind; if he did so he would freeze up, he understood. The two charged in together with Gonff trailing behind, and Martin was the first of them to meet an opponent. It was a weasel, who came at him from the side with a shortsword. Martin whirled and met his cut with his own weapon, thrusting upwards and out, disarming him. A quick punch to the gut brought the weasel to his knees, and Martin raised his sword overhead, ready to strike down.

_A world turning red…_

Martin froze in place. It was just like his dreams. _No. This is different. It HAS to be_.

Noticing that his opponent was hesitating and lost in himself, the weasel grinned before grabbing his sword and staggering to his feet. Keeping a firmer grip on his weapon this time the weasel jabbed outwards, forcing Martin to whirl to the side as he readjusted his own grip.

Verdauga’s blade interrupted the weasel’s next thrust, cutting off his arm and following up with another slash that cleaved the weasel’s head from his body. “You can’t hesitate, son!” The wildcat barked. “It will only get you killed!” Then he charged off to find another opponent.

Martin stayed behind, staring at the now-headless weasel, and fought to keep down the bile currently rising in his throat. Then he grit his teeth, forced himself to turn away, and looked around to find his next duel.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gonff, locked in combat with the fox he’d spied earlier, doing his best to fend off the fox’s spear. The mouse was making a good show of it, certainly better than his fight with that corsair a few days ago, but it was obvious from his shaking arms and heavy breathing that things were beginning to go south.

Martin screwed up his courage and sprinted over. “Hey, fox! Try _me!_ ”

The fox delivered a kick that sent Gonff sprawling before turning to face his new opponent. “Another mouse brat?” He leered. “Where’s the challenge?”

They began. The fox jabbed and parried with expert precision, blunting all of Martin’s attacks and managing to land one of his own. The mouse paused long enough to wipe the blood off his face before changing tactics. Instead of trying to overcome his enemy’s longer reach, Martin decided that the best thing he could do would be to use that reach against him. He waited for the fox to make another jab before answering the move with an upwards swing with the flat of his blade, hoping to knock it out of the way and for the fox to overcorrect, but realized to his horror that the fox was quite a bit stronger than he was. Instead of the spear being forced upwards, Martin felt himself getting pushed down to the earth.

_Damn it! What now?_ Martin could feel the spear forcing him downwards and tried to think of a way out.

He had an idea. Martin let go of his sword for a fraction of a second. Just as planned the Fox was unable to check his forwards momentum and tripped forwards, losing focus for the crucial moments Martin needed to take hold of his sword again and slam the blade into his opponent’s chest. “Is this challenge enough?” He asked.

The fox merely stared at him in shock and coughed up blood.

Martin suppressed a shudder as he let the fox collapse to the forest floor. He yanked his blade out of his dying opponent and walked over to Gonff, who was still on all fours. Martin held out his paw, and Gonff took it.

“Thanks, matey. Thought I was a goner for a moment. How’s our side doing?”

“I’m not sure. I _think_ we’re winning, though?”

As if to confirm that fact a squirrel burst out from the trees in front of them and promptly slashed a rat clean across the neck, laughing as she did so. When she noticed the two mice the grinned at them with the most disturbing smile either of them had every seen on a Woodlander. “Come on!” She called out. “There’s still some good red sport yet!” Then she dashed back into the forest, gleeful.

The two mice looked at each other and followed. As they caught up to the squirrel she was locked in combat with another rat, hacking and slashing until the rat staggered back and collapsed on all four paws. Not waiting for him to get up the squirrel spun her dagger around in her paw and plunged it straight down into the rat’s back.

Once again noticing her two followers, she left the rat’s corpse and strutted over. “Either of you have a rag I can borrow? My knife’s getting a bit too wet for my tastes.” Her eyes were tinted red, Martin noticed.

Wordlessly, Gonff produced a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her. The squirrel nodded and took it, cleaning the blood off her knife before handing it back. “Come on, boys! Look lively! We’re winning out here!” Without waiting for a reply she took off back into the forest.

“Ranguvar.” Martin muttered.

“Come again?”

“Ranguvar Foeseeker. Father recruited her six years ago after Salamandastron. Ashleg says that he saw her rip off a foebeast’s head with only her paws.”

Gonff whistled. “Blimey. She sounds like quite the warrior.”

Martin gazed down at the dead rat, remembering the tint in her eyes and his own dreams. “That’s one way to describe it.”

“Should we go after her, you think?”

“I’d…rather not, personally. If you wish to by all means, but I think I’ve seen enough of her for tonight.”

The two mice realized that the sounds of battle were rapidly fading. Soon afterwards, Verdauga and Whitear came from the direction Ranguvar had gone, the former visibly relieved to find them alive and unharmed.

“We smashed them completely.” The wildcat announced. “Only four of our enemies escaped, and just as we could have hoped they’ve all gone right in Splitnose’s direction. Victory is ours.”

Once Splitnose and his group appeared, along with a weasel they had taken prisoner, they began marching for home.

Martin and Gonff jogged up to Verdauga, who noticed them and smiled. “So: you two have won your first battle.”

“I think ‘won’ is a bit of an overstatement, my lord. ‘Survived’ would be better. If it weren’t for Martin I’d by in the Dark Forest right about now.”

“Oh?”

“There was a fox. I didn’t hesitate this time, father.” Martin quietly wondered to himself it that was something to actually be proud about. “How many did we lose?”

“None. It was a complete rout.”

They walked onwards, all caught up in their victory save the two mice, who instead tried to ignore the unsettling feeling in their stomachs.


	34. Of Shame and Slaves

Martin hadn’t expected to get all that much restful sleep even after they’d all trudged back into camp, and his expectations had unfortunately proven correct; following their return and dissembling for the night Martin had spent a good two hours tossing and turning while the sounds of metal and screaming refused to leave his head, and even after he fell asleep the only thing that awaited him was another nightmare, this time one in which the fox he’d struck down suddenly morphed into Bane as he died and Whitear lay butchered as Banya looked on in horror.

As such, when morning came, it both came too fast and not fast enough.

Martin stepped out into the morning air. Everything was still quiet – their return last night had heralded the rousing of the entire camp and an impromptu celebration, so like as not everyone was still sleeping off their ale, and Martin had the entire world to himself.

And his ghosts, of course. _Two more. That makes what, four now? Four creatures dead at my paws_. He still wasn’t sure how to feel about that, whether he should be proud or horrified. It was beginning to become a tiring cycle, he realized: the fighting, and then the constant self-doubt and questioning over whether what had been done was correct or not. _I wonder if father ever struggled with this? Did either of them? Did Ashleg or Amber or any of the rest?_

He sighed and flopped down on a rock. Somehow, in all the years they’d been training him to fight, no one had ever really gotten around to mentioning how to deal with the aftermath. All those stories he’d loved as a child also had failed to discuss it, the heroes always managing to kill their foes without being consumed with guilt afterwards. _Of course, why would they? They always fought and killed for the right reasons? They always did it to save someone or stop something, or to…_

Wait a moment. Reasons.

Martin forced himself to think back to the moments when he’d decided to take a life, _why_ he’d decided: Gingivere, being whipped across the face. Gonff, on his knees and about to be run through.

It was as though a weight was lifting ever-so-slightly off his chest. Not quite all the way, but just a little bit.

Martin stood up and allowed himself to smile. He looked back at the tent, which Gingivere was just now exiting, and gave his brother a little wave. _As far as reasons go, I suppose there are worse ones._

“You look terrible.” Gingivere opined as he walked over. “Did you not sleep?”

“I just got back from a battle, you dolt.” Martin rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”

“That bad?”

“It was certainly bloody, I can tell you that.”

“Oh. I’m…sorry.” Gingivere’s ears flattened back against his head. “Did you have to kill anyone?”

“Two – well, one, really, but it would have been two if I hadn’t frozen up. I suppose father should really be getting the credit for that one.”

“Speaking of father…” He looked down at the ground. “If you wanted to put off talking to him about everything again, that would be okay.”

“Huh?” Martin raised an eyebrow. “Do you not want to all of a sudden?”

“No, it’s not that. I do, it’s just…I didn’t know if you…after what you had to…” Gingivere’s voice trailed off.

“I’m fine, Gingivere. I think I’m starting to figure out how to come to terms with it. And besides, last night I promised myself that I wouldn’t put it off any longer.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

 

Verdauga had always been an early riser, and thus Martin and Gingivere fully expected that he would be up and awake by the time they came to call. Sure enough, they entered his tent to find him poring over the map of the surrounding area, a pile of notes already starting to appear at the edge of the table.

The wildcat noticed his sons entering and smiled. “Well, well, well. My sons, awake at the crack of dawn of their own volition. I would have thought that after last night you’d both be asleep until past noon. To what do I owe this unexpected surprise?”

The two looked at each other and gave a fraction of a nod. “We wanted to speak with you.” Gingivere began. “About some things Bella told us on the journey up here.”

“Oh? What sort of things?”

“Oh, you know…” Gingivere looked at the ground, suddenly having second thoughts about how to proceed. _Is this really what we should be doing?_ “Just some stuff about the past.” He mumbled.

Martin gave his brother a slightly annoyed look and gave him a gentle kick on the leg. Gingivere glared back at him, reproachful.

“You two, I’m really very busy, so if you could get to the point, I would appreciate it a great –”

“Bella told us about the slave children at Salamandastron.” Martin cut his father off mid-sentence. “The ones you killed.”

The atmosphere in the tent immediately cooled as a chill seemed to enter the air. “She did?” Verdauga, unbeknownst to any of them, snapped the quill he was holding in his paw. “How much did she tell you?”

Gingivere was still staring down at the floor, so Martin kept talking for the both of them. “About all of it. She told us about the oil, and about why you did it, everything.”

“I see.” Verdauga closed his eyes. _Damn it, Bella, that was not your secret to tell. Why, now of all times, did this have to come out?_ “And what is it you wished to discuss about it?”

“Well,” Gingivere finally spoke again, “we, uh, wanted to know how you felt about it.” Looking his father straight in the eye, the wildcat took a breath before continuing. “Do you regret doing it? When we found out we couldn’t believe it was true. That you, of all creatures, would order the deaths of _children_ …do you feel any remorse, father?”

Now it was Verdauga who was unable to face their eyes. Looking older than he ever had before, as if he was suddenly feeling all his years at once, the great wildcat took a seat before addressing his sons. “More than you know.” He muttered. “I think I had nightmares about it every night for a solid year after the fact.”

_Nightmares_. Martin unconsciously tightened. “And now?”

“I’ve made my peace with it. At least, as much as one can make their peace with something like this. If I hadn’t given the order, the entire mountain would likely have fallen, and you three would have been made slaves.” He looked at his sons, eyes both full of regret and determination. “That was something I could not allow.”

“Even though saving your own children meant killing others?”

Even so, Gingivere. I still regret that it came to that, truly, I do, and I wish it hadn’t, but still. If I have to choose between saving my own children and creatures I have never even me, I would choose you every time. Does that make me a monster in your eyes?”

It was an unexpected, and rather difficult, question. “I…Not really, but…” Gingivere replied.

“No.” Martin replied, thinking of a wager made with a corsair. “I think – I think I would have done the same in your place.”

Both wildcats looked at him. “Come again?” Verdauga asked.

“Are you thinking about you and Badrang?”

He nodded.

“Martin, that was different from what I did. The slaves I killed were all children.”

“There were children in that line, too.” Gingivere replied quietly. “There was this squirrel right about this age, I remember. And an otter.”

“Making that deal tore me up inside. Since then I’ve kept wondering ‘was that the right thing to do? Should I have insisted on freeing all of them?’ I felt like a coward, abandoning them. But there was something Bella said: sometimes the only choices we can make are the wrong ones.” Martin let some of the tenseness flow out of his body. “Is that how you felt afterwards, father?”

“It is, I suppose. Bella’s a wise woman.”

Their conversation seemed to be drawing to a close. Gingivere and Martin exchanged another look that said _really? Is that it? All those days of anticipating and putting it off for this?_ It seemed as though there was something else they were forgetting, though; what had that been?

Martin remembered first. “Father?”

“Yes, Martin? What is it?”

“While I understand why you did what you did, there’s still one more thing I want to know.” He took a breath first and steeled himself. Odds are, this wasn’t going to be very pretty. “Why did you push us away afterwards?”

The words struck Verdauga like an arrow. For a second the wildcat seemed to flinch back, and it was plain that he was deeply hurt. “Martin, don’t say things like that. I never –”

“You _did_ , though!” The mouse’s paw slammed the table. “I didn’t realize it until recently, but ever since Salamandastron it’s like you’ve been holding us at arm’s length.” Now that he was started, the words kept pouring out. “All this time, I’d wondered if it was me, if I’d done something wrong, and I just kept wondering, and wondering and worrying…” Martin caught himself rambling and forced himself to stop.

“He’s right, father. It was like we’d all done something wrong.” Gingivere’s voice wavered the tiniest amount. “It – it stung. I won’t lie.”

Verdauga wanted to deny it. Truly, deeply, he wanted to tell his sons that he’d never felt like that, but he held back. It was _true_ , he’d realized: once they’d gotten back to Mossflower and the reality of his actions had finally sunk in, it had become all the harder to look at his children, Martin especially. He just kept seeing those little bodies… “Alright, fine, I admit it. I’m sorry, both of you. I just…after everything that happened, I…” The words kept catching in his throat. _Damn you, Greeneyes, SPEAK!_ “I won’t ask your forgiveness. But please, understand – it was never anything you two did. Never. And I vow that once this is over, I’ll try and find ways to make it up to you, if I can. Is that acceptable?” Both Martin and Gingivere nodded. “Thank you. Now, is there anything else you wanted to talk about?

Martin was oddly quiet considering his earlier plans, Gingivere noticed. “Not me, personally, but I think Martin wanted to ask you – ouch!” Out of nowhere, something slammed into his paw and sent a wave of pain shooting upwards.

Verdauga looked at him, sharply. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, father.” Gingivere messaged his paw. “I think I might have just moved it wrong.”

Verdauga’s brows shot up, but he decided not to press the issue and turned to his other son instead. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

Martin, who had taken the opportunity to discreetly move his own paw as far away from his brother as possible, scrambled to come up with a half-decent answer. “Oh, uh, I just wanted to know if you’ve seen Mask anywhere this morning? He wasn’t with us last night and didn’t notice him on my way here, so I was curious if he was on an assignment again.”

“Like as not, he’s probably still angry over Sunflash. I wouldn’t put it past him to be sulking in his tent as we speak, and I doubt we’ll see him again until it is actually time to rescue the boy.” Verdauga’s face grew distant for a moment. “Soon. Soon, he will be free.”

***

The inside of Swartt’s tent was dark, as it always was. Not that it mattered; badgers were used to moving about in the dark. And besides, it wasn’t like there was anything that Sunflash hadn’t seen over the past – what was it? Five years? Six? He’d lost count.

Sitting there in the blackness, eyes swollen shut from his last beating, Sunflash sighed. _All this because I wanted to pick a bunch of stupid flowers for that Greeneyes girl._ Odds were, by now she’d forgotten he existed, and most like everyone back in Mossflower thought he was long dead. _If only I actually was_.

His paws tightened, temporarily straining the ropes binding him in place. _No. No. I won’t give in_. It was a road that he’d been down countless times over the past few years, and every time he reminded himself that he would live. That he _needed_ to. His will to push onwards was the last thing Swartt would take from him, and the badger reminded himself that he would never give the ferret that victory.

If only the reminder wasn’t starting to get more difficult to stomach with each passing day.

The ruffling of the tent flap caught his attention. Sunflash forced his eyes to open as far as they could, just far enough to make out his visitor. Through the pain and the dim light Sunflash took in his visitor. “Bluefen.” He hadn’t realized just how dry his tongue was until he tried to speak. “Surely it’s not time for lunch already?”

Bluefen gave him a furtive glance out of the corner of her eyes. “It’s still morning.”

“I’ll take that as a no. Is it something Bowfleg wants?”

“My father’s with the captains at the moment. Last night apparently things went…”

“There was a battle?” Sunflash groaned internally. Whenever some misfortune visited their band, Swartt would come by afterwards to vent his frustrations on his prisoner. Occasionally, if the misfortune had been particularly bad, there would be blunt weapons involved. “Swartt wouldn’t have happened to have gotten himself killed, would he?”

Bluefen flinched at the name. “ _Quiet!_ ” She hissed. “Talk like that, when he finds out, Swartt will hurt you!”

“He doesn’t already?” If his paws hadn’t been completely bound Sunflash would have pointed to the myriad of scars crossing his chest. Still, he noticed that the talk was greatly upsetting the only creature in the horde with any decency, so he decided not to push the issue. “Sorry, Bluefen. But what _are_ you here for?”

Gazing around again, slowly, cautiously, she reached into her cloak and withdrew an apple. “I…thought you might like something better than gruel.” She held it up to him.

Sunflash was touched by the gesture and made sure to give her his thanks before gently taking a bite. Immediately the sweet taste filled his mouth, something that had been completely alien to him these past few years. Each bite, each explosion of sweetness, seemed to, at least for the moment, push everything he had endured away.

For the first time in years, Sunflash allowed himself to feel a bit of hope. He finished the apple and smiled at Bluefen, who returned the smile in her own tremulous way.

Unfortunately, right as the two did so the tent flap flew open again as Swartt Sixclaw stormed into his tent. Upon catching sight of Bluefen standing next to his badger the ferret stopped short and glared at her.

“I don’t recall asking you to check up on Scumstripe, girl. Get away from him, now. Unless you’d like me to tie you up next to him?”

“My – my father would ne-never let you do that.” Bluefen stammered, shaking.

Angered by even this token defiance, Swartt walked up to her and slapped her across the face. “Don’t make me laugh. Now get out of my sight before I lose my temper.” Bluefen took a quick look at Sunflash, one that apparently lasted too long for Swartt as he seized a candle from his table and lobbed it at her. “GO!”

Bluefen squealed as the candle flew past her and scurried out from the tent.

Swartt turned to his slave and noticed the rigidness of his body. “Got something to say, Scumstripe? No? I thought not.”

Unable to do anything more than ball his paws into a fist, the badger seethed inside. Normally every instinct he’d learned over his captivity would be screaming for him to remain silent at this point, but after watching the exchange between the two ferrets those instincts were completely overridden by pure rage. “Sunflash.” He croaked.

“What was that?” Swartt’s paw dropped to his knife.

“My name is Sunflash!”

“That’s what I thought you said.” With a quick movement Swartt withdrew his knife and jammed the hilt into Sunflash’s neck, forcing the badger to dangle limply in his bonds, coughing. Another quick movement sent a line of fire across Sunflash’s forehead and a wave of blood down his face.

Swartt took the badger’s head and cupped it in his paws. “Don’t you _ever_ use that name again. You are Scumstripe, now and forever. Remember that.” The ferret kneed him in the chest. “I get enough disrespect from that idiot Bowfleg as it is; I will _not_ tolerate insolence from someone as low as you, badger.” Swartt turned and stalked off, muttering something about scouting parties and a need for everyone to listen to him as he went.

Hanging loosely in the ropes, Sunflash blinked the blood out of his eyes as he stared after his captor. One day, the opportunity to escape would present itself. It had to, and soon.

_I don’t know how much longer I can last otherwise_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a longer one this time.


	35. Swartt Sixclaw

Swartt stormed out of his tent in a huff. _Damned badger. Damned Bowfleg. Both of them are so insolent!_ After the wildcat’s surprise attack against them last night Swartt had been most rudely awakened from his slumber to get ranted at for a solid hour by the reclining sack of flab he still was supposed to call “chief”. _And it wasn’t even my fault. I was the one who suggested doubling our scouts and keeping a closer eye on the Mossflower lot, but the high lard was convinced that everything was fine._

He aimed a kick at a rat sleeping on the ground, wishing deeply that he could do the same to Bowfleg. _He’s not fit enough to lead a group of children raiding a pantry, let alone a horde as mighty as this._

He needed wine, he decided. Hopefully Bowfleg hadn’t drank it all.

Unfortunately, before he could get to their stores and help himself, he found himself accosted by the high lard’s daughter. “What is it now, Bluefen?” He snarled.

“My father wants to have words with you.” As always, Bluefen was staring straight at the ground as she talked, too afraid to look at him. “He, um, says that you need to help him plan out his battle strategies.”

“Do you presume to command me, bitch?”

“What?” Bluefen quailed under Swartt’s gaze. “N-n-never. It’s just, well, my father said he wants to speak with you, and-and I’m only repeating what he said, so it’s really _him_ that’s commanding you.” The last two words made her wince. “No. Not commanding. Requests. My father _requests_ your presence.”

“Fine. I’ll be on my way. Get out of my sight, woman.” Bluefen promptly ran away as fast as she could. _At least SOMEONE here gives me my proper due_. He had to admit; ordering her around was much more fun than it ought to be.

As she fled from sight, Swartt found himself observing her body. _She’s small, I suppose, but still…there’s something about her sleekness that’s quite appealing. And not a bad pair on her, either_. He shook his head. _But now’s not the time for such things, I suppose_.

 

He found Bowfleg reclining on his throne in the middle of the gaudy pavilion the high lard insisted on bringing everywhere they went. Upon entering Swartt bowed as was customary, forcing back a fair amount of bile as he did so.

“My lord Bowfleg.” Part of Swartt’s brain instantly vomited at the phrase.

“Swartt.” Bowfleg’s tone, as expected, was full of contempt. “I have need of your wisdom.”

“With all due respect,” _that is to say, none_ , “you had need of my wisdom long before now.”

“Mind your tongue. I’m still the chief here.” Swartt held his tongue, and Bowfleg continued droning on. “Although I suppose if lord Greeneyes has his way that won’t last long. Still, I hope to forestall him yet.” He looked at the other ferret. “You will help me plan how.”

“I am at your disposal.”

“Good. Now: how to you propose we strike back?”

_Typical. Bowfleg’s too lazy to even pretend at coming up with ideas of his own._ “I suggest we take revenge by attacking their weakest links – namely, the Woodlanders Greeneyes dredged up before coming after us. Odds are that they’ll fall easier than his trained soldiers.”

Bowfleg nodded. “Clever. If we can soften them up enough, we can use numbers to overwhelm the rest.”

_That’s basic military strategy, idiot_. “Of course, it would be best if we held off attacking for now. At the moment, we don’t know enough about their current movements and marching order. If we were to strike without thinking first, we’d be just as like to run into those damned squirrels or his elite soldiers as we would be to encounter novices.”

“So what you’re saying is we need information.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself, my lord.” _Except, of course, for the fact that I just DID._ The sheer stupidity of every word emanating from Bowfleg’s mouth rankled more than ever.

“Good. I’ll leave that to you.” Bowfleg closed his eyes long enough that Swartt began to suspect that he was asleep, but eventually the high lard opened them again. “You have twenty-four hours to figure it out. Then, we attack.

“I won’t fail you, my lord.” _Twenty-four hours? Are you serious?_ It was absurd.

With another bow, more to disguise his anger and contempt than anything, Swartt turned and exited the pavilion and returned to his own tent.

The badger was limp in his bonds, but when Swartt entered he raised his head.

“Tell me, Scumstripe. If you had a single day to figure out the way an entire army is organized, how would you go about it?”

The badger didn’t answer, so Swartt crossed over to him and grabbed his face. “I asked you a question, didn’t I?”

The ferret’s gaze was met by a returning one just as angry. “How should I know?” The badger replied hoarsely. “I’m not exactly a trained general, now am I?”

A blow to the stomach set the badger into a coughing fit. “What did I earlier about insolence? _Answer the question!_ ”

“I…don’t…know…” The badger sputtered out between coughs. “But…I…would…take…one…of…them…prisoner.”

Swartt let the badger’s head drop. “Hm. Not a bad idea, Scumstripe. I suppose even someone like you can have a flash of intelligence every once-in-a-while, eh?”

Of course, he realized as he left his prisoner alone in the tent, the next problem was how to go about capturing someone without bringing down the wrath of the entire Thousand-Eye army. That was key, and in order to accomplish that they would have to…

Before Swartt could get any farther in his musings he was distracted by a massive cry exploding from deeper into camp. The ferret growled in irritation and sprinted off to find the cause, and as he got closer to the source of the jeers, he noticed a veritable throng of hordesbeasts had assembled around something. _What in the gates of hell are they doing_? Upon reaching the throng he shoved his way to the front, and saw.

Somehow, completely beyond the notice of either him or Bowfleg, a group of hordesbeasts under the command of Captain Aggal had been able to subdue a live (albeit young, by the look of him) kestrel, which they were currently securing to the ground with rope while others jabbed at him with spears and shouted out a dozen different taunts. It was all very loud and very irritating, in Swartt’s opinion.

“SILENCE!” He yelled at the top of his lungs; every single hordesbeast froze in place, and the kestrel took the opportunity to try and make an escape. Fortunately, before he could Aggal brained him with his own spear and finished tying him to the ground. The kestrel shook off the dizziness before trying again, realized that it was trapped, and settled for cursing out every creature around it.

“You blasted villains, how dare you tie me down! When I get free I’ll rip you all to shreds! I swear it!” The kestrel shrieked, a high, long call that made all those gathered leap back.

All except for Swartt, who took hold of a knife and dashed over to one of the kestrel’s wings. Without missing a beat he sawed off several feathers from the end before reaching over and doing the same to the other wing. Finished, the ferret waved them in front of the Kestrel’s eyes.

“Oh, are you now? And how exactly do you plan on doing that if you can’t even fly?” He laughed, and soon the rest of the horde joined in, earlier fear completely forgotten.

“You-you thief! Rogue! Scum!” The kestrel lunged forwards in his bonds. “You have no right to take those! I vow, ferret, I’ll bite your limbs off!”

Swartt gave an exaggerated yawn. “Are you finished shouting yet? No?” He bent down and pressed the knife against the kestrel’s neck until a trickle of blood was running down the blade. “Perhaps I ought to teach you a little –”

“SWARTT! WHAT’S THE MEANING OF THIS?”

Swartt immediately withdrew the knife and jumped back a few steps as he turned to face the interloper. “Ah, lord Bowfleg. How pleasant of you to come and join us.”

The older ferret gestured towards the captured bird. “What in the gates of hell is going on here?”

“A couple of the soldiers found him and brought him down. We just finished tying all his bonds.”

“And why wasn’t I told?”

“Because we didn’t have time?” Swartt was unable to restrain an eye-roll. “You _did_ hear when I said ‘we just finished tying all his bonds’, did you not? Usually the word ‘just’ means ‘finished within the last few moments or so’. Try and remember that in the future.”

Everyone present snickered, even the kestrel, until a glare from the older ferret shut them all up. Bowfleg lurched over to Swartt and grabbed the younger ferret by the chest, hoisting him into the air. “Don’t. Speak. To. Me. Like. That.” A punch sent Swartt flying back to the ground while Bowfleg glared over him and drew his sword. “I should have you killed for that. I could, you know.”

Swartt glowered back. _You could, but you won’t, you cowardly sack of flab._ “And who will plan your battles for you then? Wurg? Greenclaw?” He pushed himself upright. “You still need me.”

Bowfleg seethed for another few moments before sheathing his weapon. “Fine. But this is your last chance, Sixclaw. If you don’t create me a plan by this time tomorrow, I’ll put your head on a pike. Yours and that badger’s.” Without waiting for a reply he waddled off as fat as his legs could carry him.

Swartt watched him leave and resisted the urge to spit. _That’s it. That is IT. You finally stir yourself from your bloody tent and you don’t even DO anything? You just come, take a look, and leave the second someone gives you a bit of lip? You’re not a warlord, you’re an incompetent waste of space, and I’ll be DAMNED if I serve you for one more second._

He gestured to Aggal. “Get to my tent and move Scumstripe over a bit. We’re going to need some space for our new guest.”

“Aye, Swartt. Will do.”

Swartt placed a paw on the stoat’s shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll be…busy for the rest of the day, elsewise I’d do it myself.” He leaned in. “ _And, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you kindly grab those vials from my drawer?_ ” He whispered.

Aggal gave a little start before suppressing a grin. “No problem at all.”

_Excellent._ “Scraw, go tell Bowfleg I wish to drink with him tonight as apology for my…lack of humility.” The last words stuck in his craw. “The rest of you, leave me to question our new friend. There’re a few things I want to ask… oi, kestrel. What’s your name? I don’t actually now it.”

The kestrel’s glare was so venomous that more than one hordesbeast was surprised Swartt didn’t immediately drop dead. “Skarlath. My name is Skarlath.”

“Ah. Well then, _Skarlath_ , what’s say you and I talk a bit? There are some things I want to ask you about what you might have seen before you ran across us.”

Skarlath gave the ferret one last look of defiance before dropping his face to the ground. He was alone, he realized, in the middle of a horde of vermin with nary a friendly face in sight.

_Wait a moment_. Skarlath nearly did a double-take. _There was someone. A ferret. He looked almost…angry? Like he knew this was wrong?_

Before Skarlath could think on the matter any further Swartt kicked him in the beak. “No dozing until I’ve learned everything I want to!”

Skarlath took another look around the assembled hordesbeasts, hoping to see the ferret, but every face he turned to displayed nothing but contempt and savage pleasure. All the defiance rushed out of him. _I must have imagined it. There’s no way anyone decent would be able to survive in this company._

***

It was almost time for them to deliver the slop that constituted Sunflash’s dinner when the tent burst open. Swartt marched in ahead of five rats, who dragged behind them a highly battered and completely tied-up bird. Swartt noticed the badger watching them and smiled.

“Chin up, Scumstripe! I’ve got you someone to talk to!” The rats secured the bird in the ropes Aggal had set up earlier at a motion from Swartt. “Scumstripe, meet Skarlath. Skarlath, meet Scumstripe. Now, I’m sure that you two will have plenty to talk about, so I’ll leave you to it while I take care of some more…important matters.”

And with that, Skarlath and Sunflash were left alone in the darkness.

“Quite the bundle of kindness, that ferret.” Skarlath commented.

“You…you don’t know the half of it.”

“Oh, I suspect I do.” The kestrel shuddered. “The things that beast can do with a knife…”

“He hurt you?”

“That’s an understatement, matey. The villain helped himself to a good quarter of all the feathers on my wings, at the least. I won’t be able to fly for a long time.” He sighed. “I suppose all of this is my own fault for getting caught in the crosswinds like a fool.”

Sunflash chuckled in spite of himself. “Well, it could be worse: you could have been captured because you were hoping to romance a wildcat with a bouquet.”

Even in the darkness Sunflash could tell that the other creature’s mouth was a gape. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was twelve, alright? It was a long time ago. I can’t even remember her face now. Or anyone’s really, from before Swartt.”

Skarlath had no answer to that. “I’m sorry.”

Sunflash stared at the black ground. “I can’t even remember what my mother looked like. I wish I could see her again. But she’s far away, I suppose.”

“Oh? Where are you from?” Vaguely, distantly, Skarlath thought he heard the sounds of a scuffle, but he ignored it – like as not it was just two weasels brawling over a choice bit of meat. “Are you from the south?”

“Aye. From this peaceful land called Mossflower Woods. My family used to rule as lords, until my grandfather left for the mountain of Salamandastron, and afterwards the country was taken over by a wildcat named Verdauga. He wasn’t so bad as far as I can recall, him or his army. Although I _do_ recall thinking their uniforms a bit strange. Must have been the bright green.”

Skarlath blinked. “Eh? A wildcat, you say? And an army with bright green uniforms?” Now there were definitely sounds of something going on outside. “Those uniforms wouldn’t have happened to have had a giant eye in the middle of them, did they?”

Sunflash thought about it. “I’m not sure…wait, yes. Yes, they did!”

All the pain and aches from his plucked feathers vanished from Skarlath’s mind. “They’re nearby, Scumstripe! I saw them not long before I was captured! There was a wildcat, two of them actually, and uniforms like what you said! If we can escape, we can get to them!”

Sunflash brightened. “Truly? You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be, mate.”

Hope swelled in Sunflash’s heart for a golden moment before immediately darkening one again. “But how can we actually escape? The horde’s security is completely tight.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Now the scuffling noises had died down a bit, replaced by what sounded like angry shouts and a single voice trying to speak over all of them. “It seems like something’s going on out there. If I were a betting bird, I’d wager that they’re not quite as watchful as they normally are.”

“But how can we escape? You’re tied up at the legs and the wings, I’m tied up by all four paws, and neither of us can move.”

Skarlath tested the bonds. They gave a little, but not quite enough. All he could do was move a few inches towards the badger. “Can you move your left paw at all? Not much – just an inch or two?”

Sunflash tried it, and found out that he could. “If you’re suggesting that you peck your way through the rope, it’s hopeless. This rope’s almost as hard as bone and twice as thick.” _Bone_ … “Actually, when I stretch out like this, how close is my paw to your beak?”

“Quite, actually. I could reach it easily.” Skarlath frowned. “Where are you going with this?”

Sunflash tested the knot a little. It was looser than normal, he realized; not loose enough that he could just pull his paw through, but perhaps if the paw was a little smaller…

Like, say…minus a finger…

_What’s worse: losing a finger, or spending the rest of your life a plaything of Swartt Sixclaw?_ He knew the answer.

“Skarlath, can your beak saw through bone?”

“Possibly, depending on how thick it is, but…no. Absolutely not. I won’t do it.”

“Would you rather spend the rest of your life a plaything of a sadistic ferret?”

“Well, no, but…there has to be another way!”

Sunflash shook his head. “Friend, I’ve been a prisoner here since I was a child. If there’s another way to escape I haven’t seen it. Like you said, this may be our only chance, and if I can slip my left paw free I can use it to untie my right one and then I can untie everything else holding both of us.”

“But…”

“Skarlath, we have to! Please you have to believe me – losing a finger is better than life as Swartt’s slave. If it means walking free, even for a little while, I would gladly sacrifice all of my paws. Losing just my thumb is a bargain.”

“Are you sure about this?”

Sunflash nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Alright then.” Skarlath leaned over as far as he could and got to work.

It was the most painful thing Sunflash had ever experienced, almost as bad as every torture Swartt had subjected him to the last six years combined, and the Badger was forced to grit his teeth so hard that they nearly shattered. Each peck and bite from Skarlath felt like a hammer tearing away at his flesh (which, he supposed, in some ways it sort of _was_ ), and before long all the badger could see was a blood-red background intermingled with spots of blackness.

Thrice he nearly caved and begged Skarlath to stop to let him just bleed out, but thrice he thought of his mother, and of Mossflower, and forced himself to keep silent.

_Brockhall_ , he reminded himself as Skarlath’s beak touched bone for the first time, _remember the great oak tree and all its secrets._

_Mother’s smile_ , he reminded himself as the last bit of bone shattered, _remember how she smiled whenever she looked at you_.

_You are Sunflash of Brockhall,_ he reminded himself as this paw exploded in pain anew, _child of Bella of Brockhall. YOU MUST REACH HER!_

Suddenly, through the fire and pain he was aware that his left paw was unbound. Sunflash brought it up to his face for a moment and studied the mangled remnants of his thumb before shakily undoing the restraints on his right paw. Without anything holding him up the badger toppled to the floor, legs unused to supporting him. ‘

“Sunflash!” Skarlath gasped.

“I – I’m alright.” Sunflash got to his feet, legs trembling. “Just…give me a moment.” Paws quivering, he untied the rest of his bonds before stumbling over to the kestrel. Fumbling, he attempted to undo Skarlath’s own bonds.

Before he could make much headway, two vermin from the horde burst in – a ferret Sunflash had never seen before and a fox with a scar running halfway down his face.

“Well, well, well!” The fox leered. “What have we here? Looks like an escape!” The fox drew his cutlass. “Say badger, how’s about this: you stop what you’re doing and come to lord Bowfleg – I mean lord Swartt quietly, or I gut you like a fish?”

Wordlessly Sunflash looked around for a weapon, not finding one and instead raised his paws. Die he almost assuredly would, but at least he would go down swinging.

The fox noticed it, grinned, and advanced on his prey.

He took two steps before the ferret delivered a quick to his stomach. The fox doubled over, gasping, as the ferret unsheathed his knife and plunged it straight into the fox’s neck.

Once the fox had died the ferret stepped over to Skarlath and began sawing through the rope. As he did so he glared at Sunflash.

“Chopping off your own thumb? Away from any help and no real way to stop the bleeding? What are you, a bloody idiot? Come on, Sunflash: your mother raised you to be smarter than that!”

Sunflash, oblivious to the pain, could only blink. “Do I know you?”

With a _snap_ the ferret finished sawing through Skarlath’s ropes, after which he turned to the badger and nodded. “We haven’t met in years, but yes, you have. Do you remember Skipper Warthorn? Leader of the otters?”

Sunflash tried to think about it. “The name sounds familiar.”

The ferret lifted a paw to his face and tugged on it. Impossibly, part of his snout dropped to the ground, revealing that the ferret was, in fact, an otter.

“You speak with Skipper’s brother. I am Mask, and as soon as I get your bit of self-inflicted idiocy properly bound up, I’m taking you out of here. No matter what lord Verdauga says is proper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long one, easily the longest yet.


	36. Reunions at Dusk

The three of them snuck out of the vermin camp. Distantly Sunflash could hear what sounded like Swartt giving some sort of address to the horde, but what it was he had no idea. That rat had said something about ‘Lord’ Swartt, he remembered; had Swartt finally decided to get rid of the ferret he’d railed about so many times?

He turned to Mask. “Did something happen?”

Mask, who had his arm around Sunflash’s left one, snorted. “You could say that. I don’t really know the specifics, but from what I saw and heard it seems like old Swartt finally got sick of Bowfleg and decided to poison him or something. Had to cut his way through that weasel Wurgg, I think, after the deed was done. Anyways as you can probably guess the fat ferret’s dead, and the young one’s taking charge.” A massive cheer rang up from behind them. “Most like he’s got them all coming around. Damn it all – I was hoping for a bit more of a fight to give us cover.” He tugged on Sunflash’s arm. “Come on. We need to move faster.”

They ran along, Sunflash being practically dragged along as Skarlath perched on his shoulder. As they did, he digested the information Mask had given him. _So Swartt’s horde leader now? That bodes ill for everyone from Mossflower – he’s three times as clever as old Bowfleg and much more decisive. And if he’s got them all on his side, that means there won’t be anything stopping them from marching out._ He could just imagine Swartt sitting in Bowfleg’s chair, ordering everyone around as they prepared to take the fight to their enemies and enjoying all the spoils Bowfleg had accumulated over the years, including –

He stopped short. “Bluefen!”

The sudden outburst nearly caused Skarlath to topple off Sunflash’s shoulder. “What about her?” The kestrel asked as he steadied himself.

“We can’t just leave her! Now that Swartt’s leader of the horde they’ll have to wed. It’s tradition for the new leader to marry the old one’s daughter.” Just the thought of poor Bluefen being forced to take Swartt as a husband made the badger sick to his stomach. “We can’t just _leave_ her with him!”

“And how do you suppose we go rescue her, matey? Three of us against the entire horde aren’t exactly good odds. And besides, she’s just a ferret.”

“But she’s not like the others! She was always kind to me. She slipped me food whenever she could, and it always seemed like she wished that she’d set me loose if she got half the chance. We can’t abandon her to that monster!”

Skarlath sighed. “Sunflash, mate, she’s a _ferret_. Y’know, the same creatures that were torturing you the past half-decade?”

“They’re not all bad, Skarlath!” He looked at Mask. “You agree with me, don’t you?”

It was only then that they both realized that the otter had gotten all tense. He had a distant look in his eyes, like he was remembering something from the past, and he seemed to have not heard the question. Sunflash asked it again, and this time the otter stirred. “We have to leave her. There’s no time. Even though it’s wrong.” He threw a look back at the vermin camp. “Well, everyone,” he muttered too quietly for the other two to hear, “I suppose I have no room to complain now.” He looked Sunflash straight in the eyes. “We’ll find a way to rescue her. I swear it.”

The three of them took off once more.

***

Almost the moment supper was finished Chibb burst into view above Verdauga’s tent. “I’ve got a message for lord Verdauga! From lord Boar!”

Martin hailed the robin. “You _do_ remember that you don’t have to shout our ears off, right?”

“It gets the message across. When you’ve got urgent news, every little bit of attention you can grab helps.” Chibb smiled. “And you can’t say that it doesn’t work, now can you?”

“I’m starting to get why my brother dislikes you so much.” Martin opened the tent flap and gestured for Chibb to follow.

As it was dinner time the only creatures in the tent were lord Verdauga and the other travelers, who all rose upon seeing their new guest.

“So you were the one shouting?” As Gingivere audibly groaned Verdauga stood up and poured a small cup of wine. He handed it to Chibb, who carefully balanced it on his wings before gulping it down. “Nothing’s happened to the Long Patrol, has it?”

Chibb shook his head after he finished his drink. “Unless Bowfleg managed to sneak up on them in the last twenty minutes or so, they’re still fine. And besides, we’d know if something _was_ happening – when I left, they were only about twenty miles out from you lot.”

Gingivere, who had been drinking down a glass of water, promptly spit it out and started choking. “And you’re just coming _now?_ ” He managed to sputter out. Martin ran over to his brother and pounded on his back while the wildcat glared at the robin, who merely shrugged.

“Hey, I came as soon as I was able to, mate. It’s not my fault if it’s not early enough for you.”

Verdauga shot his son a calming look before the latter could reply. “That may be, but it still would have been more convenient if we had known about this earlier.” He sighed. “We only have, maybe, two hours to prepare for their arrival? Less? We’ll need to throw something together.”

“I could just dramatically jump out from somewhere again.” Martin joked. “It worked well enough last time, didn’t it?”

The older wildcat simply rolled his eyes. “No. Boar deserves a proper reception.”

Unfortunately, before he could begin to go detail as to just what a ‘proper reception’ would consist of, Verdauga was interrupted by another shout from outside.

“MY LORD! LORD VERDAUGA! COME QUICKLY!” It was Ashleg. He burst into the tent, completely winded, and launched into his report before anyone could react. “It’s – it’s Mask. He’s back from the vermin camp.”

“He was back there? I didn’t give him an order to spy.” Verdauga frowned. “What was he doing there?”

Ashleg, surprisingly, smiled. “A rescue mission.”

Everyone in the tent stared at the pine marten, and three sets of eyes grew wide as saucers. Chibb stared from face-to-face, confused. “A rescue mission? Who?”

“Bella’s boy.” Ashleg replied. “I don’t know how, and I know that it’s directly against what you ordered, but Mask saved him. He’s with his mother as we speak.”

All three Greeneyes men bolted out as fast as they could, leaving Chibb and Ashleg in their wake, and made their way to Bella and Gonff’s tent, all but shoving everyone in their path out of the way.

They arrived to the sight of the two badgers holding each other so tight it was a wonder that neither one shattered the other. Martin wasn’t sure who was sobbing harder: Bella, or the younger badger she was embracing.

“Oh, my son, my brave, brave son…” She whispered. “Sunflash, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, mother. I was the one who wandered off.” After what seemed like an eternity Sunflash stepped away from his mother. “But I’m back now.”

“You’re hurt!” Gingivere gasped. Martin realized it was true: the badger’s entire left paw was heavily bandaged up.

Sunflash turned and noticed the newcomers for the first time. “Gingivere? Is that you?” He broke into a broad grin. “I see you’re still thin as a stick.”

Gingivere ignored the teasing. “What happened to your paw?”

“I – may have done something to it in my hurry to escape.”

“He means that he had his bird friend saw off his thumb.” Bella glared daggers at her son. “Honestly, Sunflash – what were you thinking?”

“Mother, it was either that or stay Swartt’s prisoner for the rest of my days. How was I supposed to know that you all had a spy in the camp?”

“Still! It was reckless! What if you bled out before Mask arrived?”

“Better dead than –”

Bella held up her paw. “Don’t say it. Please.”

“Fine, mother. I’m sorry.” Sunflash snickered. “I’ve been back for five minutes and I’m already getting lectured.”

Verdauga smiled at that. “It’s the solemn duty of every parent, son. Just count yourself lucky you’re being spared the sort of tongue-lashing my own children got when _they_ showed up here.”

“Right, speaking of that, where’s Tsarmina?” Sunflash looked around hopefully. “Is she here? It would be lovely to see her again.”

The mood instantly went sour. Bella, Verdauga, Gingivere and Martin all looked at one another, not sure quite what to say. “She’s…back in Mossflower.” Bella finally offered. “I’ll tell you about it later.” The older badger forced a smile onto her face. “Besides, there’s so much to talk about.”

Sunflash looked like he wanted to press the issue, but before he could he suddenly grunted and sunk to the ground, clutching his injured paw. Concerned, Bella put her arm around his and helped him back to his feet.

“Of course, before you do anything, we should get you looked at by a proper healer.” Verdauga gestured into the camp. “Go see Ditchpaw – that ferret’s one of the finest in Mossflower.”

At the mention of the word _ferret_ Sunflash briefly flinched before suppressing it and nodding. Alright then. Would you care to accompany me, mother?”

The two badgers departed. Shortly afterwards Verdauga noticed Mask lingering in outside of one of the tents and bade the otter to come over.

Mask approached with his head held high. “Well, my lord? I imagine you’re less than enthused with me sneaking off.”

“In abject disobedience to my orders? Naturally?” The wildcat sighed. “Still, you returned Sunflash to us, and with Boar about to unite his army with ours within the next few hours the danger is far less than it could have been.”

Mask looked up sharply. “He’s that close?”

“He is. Now, obviously I’m not going to have you scourged for liberating Sunflash from his captivity, but still – you disobeyed me and could have brought ruin upon our entire endeavor, and so you must be punished.” The wildcat closed his eyes. “You will be confined to your tent until further notice. You will not leave unless I call upon you for advice or to give orders; all meals will be delivered to you there, and twice a day I will send along one of the Thousand-Eyes to make sure your chamber pot is cleared. Furthermore, once we return to Mossflower, I will hand you over to your brother for further punishment as he sees fit. Until then, you are not to leave your tent, and any actions that you take outside of what I have ordered you to do will be met with more severe sanction.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“Good. Now return to your tent and await further orders. And Mask? Thank you for returning Sunflash to us. Contrary to orders it might have been, Bella and I still owe you a debt.”

***

As it turned out, Boar arrived precisely one hour and ten minutes later. The two lords embraced one another, but close as it was their embrace was no match for what happened when Boar encountered his grandson. The enormous badger hugged Sunflash with such force that he lifted the younger badger clean off the ground. Subsequent to this hug Boar went after Mask, who had been allowed out of his tent for the occasion, and squeezed the otter hard so hard that Martin could almost here multiple bones snapping in half. “Brave otter, all of Salamandastron owes you thanks.”

Mask, who seemed too winded to reply, merely smiled and gave a little bow. Boar turned back to Sunflash and ruffled the fur on the young badger’s head, a gesture which Martin noted was met with a microscopic wince from the recipient. Boar deposited a quick kiss on his daughter’s forehead before crossing over to Verdauga.

“Friend, I can’t thank you enough for rescuing my grandson.”

Verdauga shook his head. “I’m the one who owes you thanks, since you came all this way just to help us out.”

“What else could I do? We’ve been firm allies, these past few years, and after what Chibb told me your daughter is doing in Mossflower there was no way I could sit idly in Salamandastron any longer.” He looked at Verdauga, suddenly apologetic. “No offense meant regarding your daughter, my friend.”

“None taken. She – she needs to be cast out of Kotir.” It pained his father to say that, Martin observed, no matter how much of a truth it might have been. “But it does us no good to speak of it now. Are your hares tired from the march? We just finished our supper here, but there should still be enough left over for the Long Patrol to have.”

Boar waved a paw in dismissal. “Thank you for the offer, but I won’t impose on your hospitality quite yet. Elsewise your stores’ll be empty before the night is out. Trust me – it’s not easy feeding an army of hares. They’re blooming stomachs on legs more than beasts like you or I.”

Both of them laughed. “Can I at least interest you in something to drink?” Verdauga offered. “I’ve a cask of Nutbrown beer I’ve been saving.”

“That sounds delightful.” Boar clapped a paw on the wildcat’s shoulder. “After that, we can begin planning how best to eliminate our foes. In particular, how to best pay Swartt back for all the years of cruelty towards my grandson.”

“My friend, I agree with you wholeheartedly.”


	37. Red Dawn

After a lengthy discussion that involved a solid two hours spent examining observations made by both Mask and Skarlath, they had their battle plan for the next day: the Long Patrol would come at the horde from the north while the Thousand-Eyes came from the south, trapping the horde in a pincer movement and slowly grinding all of Swartt’s forces to dust. They would start the march first thing the next night, aiming to catch their foes by surprise with another night attack, and with any luck by sunrise the morning after that they would be on their way back to Mossflower. It was a simple plan, but one that they all had high hopes for.

Thus, it was quite the unexpected shock when Martin was awoken by the sounds of clashing steel and battle cries at six in the morning.

Neither him nor Gingivere registered what was going on at first, merely staring at each other in groggy confusion, until a blood-covered Splitnose burst through the tent entrance spear in hand.

“What in blazes are you two doing just sitting there?” He shouted. “We’re under attack!”

“Is it Swartt?” Gingivere asked.

“No, it’s Greypaw the Bloody returned from the dead with an army of ten thousand demons.” Splitnose snorted derisively. “Of course it’s Swartt! Now get up, you two!” Drawn by some unseen fight the stoat charged back out of the tent.

Martin glanced at his brother, who still appeared to be in shock. “Stay here until it’s over.”

“You’re going to fight, then?”

Martin, who was already in the process of buckling his sword-belt, nodded. “My place is out there.” He made to exit after Splitnose, but paused a moment before withdrawing his knife and tossing it to his brother. “Here – try and keep yourself safe.” Then, without another word spoken by either of them, he charged into the fray.

It was utter chaos. The moment he exited the tent Martin was nearly overwhelmed by the incessant shouting and the aroma of smoke and sweat, and after taking a moment to steady himself and focus he began looking around for someone to engage with. Off to his side he noticed Whitear dueling with a pine marten and rushed over to assist, managing to reach the combatants right as the pine marten slashed Whitear’s spear clean in half. Interposing himself between the two Martin raised his sword and blocked that of his opponent, forcing the pine marten to take a step back, then another. Before Martin could make another move he heard a whistling sound from behind him and ducked, but the Pine Marten was less fortunate; for a split second her eyes widened in confusion before she began gagging and clutching at her throat. As she collapsed to the ground, Martin noticed that three metal balls had somehow become strung around her neck.

“Nice shot.” Martin commented as Whitear unwrapped his _bolas_ from around the dead pine marten’s neck. “Although a little heads-up would have been nice.”

“Too risky, my lord. That would just alert the other creature as well, and what good would that do?”

Martin heard a shout and whirled around to see a rat barreling towards him, who he swiftly dispatched with a jab through the chest. “Fair enough.” He turned back to Whitear. “What’s going on, exactly?”

Whitear shrugged. “Not sure. Whenever this started Banya and I were, erm, preoccupied with other matters, and so we only learned something was going on when some ferret hacked his way into our tent. Banya ran off to try and help protect the badgers and I decided the best thing I could do would be come and see if you and your brother were safe.”

The thirteen-year-old in Martin was suddenly filled with a morbid and fascinated curiosity, one that he forced back down. _Now’s not the time for all that. Don’t think about how that would work between a rat and a pine marten until this is over._ “Well, what now? Should we stick together?”

“I’m going to find my wife. If something happened to her I’d…” Whitear shook his head. “I suggest you go find your father.” The rat shoved his _bolas_ back into their holder before dashing off.

Martin considered what the best option was: did he do as Whitear said, or did he try and help out elsewhere? The former option was probably the safer one, at least for him. Of course, then again…

_Gonff!_ Martin realized that he had no idea where his friend was. _What if he gets overmatched again?_ His mind made up, Martin tore off in search of his friend.

He found Gonff fighting alongside the squirrel Ranguvar, the former hacking away at their opponents while Gonff kept any potential interlopers at bay with a sling. He was much more skilled with it than he was with a sword, Martin observed.

Ranguvar snapped the neck of a vole unfortunate enough to get caught in her grasp and lobbed the corpse off to the side, finally noticing Martin when the vole’s body landed in front of him. “Welcome to the fight, my lord!”

 Are you two alright?” Martin stepped gingerly around the bodies as he approached the other two, trying not to look at their faces.

“We’re perfectly fine, matey!” Gonff flung a stone at a weasel attempting to sneak up on them, hitting him in the middle of the chest. “At least, as well as we can be with the _entire camp_ on fire! Please tell me you’re here because Boar or your father have some sort of plan?”

“I think it’s everybeast for themselves.”

Ranguvar grunted. “Oh, brilliant. At least these vermin don’t seem to be organized at all eithers. Well, in the absence of any actual plan, I say we hold out here for now.”

“Might as well, matey. We’ve been doing pretty well as just the two of us, and with you here too we should be able to get rid of anybeast that comes for us.”

“Alright, then.” Martin strode around Gonff to make sure Ranguvar’s back was covered. “We stay here for now, I guess.”

The three stood in formation and waited for their next opponent to come. For the moment it seemed as though the tide of battle was mostly elsewhere, leaving them little to do but take in the burning smell and taste the sweat rolling down their faces. Checking every so often to make sure that nothing was sneaking up on them Martin tried to puzzle out what exactly was going on. _How did he sneak up on us? And, more importantly, why? Why risk everything on such a slapdash assault?_ Ranguvar had had the right of it – Swartt’s horde wasn’t attacking with any sort of rhyme or reason, acting more like a bunch of crazed vandals than the disciplined force they apparently were. _So why do something this unplanned? Is it because Mask rescued Sunflash?_ That must have been it.

“Foebeasts, incoming.” Ranguvar growled. “A ferret, three rats and a fox.”

Martin turned to look, and when he did so is stomach promptly did a belly-flop; the ferret had six claws on his left paw.

“Gonff,” he muttered, “be on your guard. It’s him.”

Swartt noticed the three of them and raised his left paw in the air, leering at them. He said something to his comrades that was too far away for Martin to hear, but the following gestures was clear enough to understand, particularly when they involved Swartt pointing directly at him.

Martin stepped up alongside Ranguvar. If they wanted to take him, they could bloody well try.

The three rats and the fox leapt forwards, the rats ganging up on Ranguvar while Martin danced with the fox, and so once again the air rang out with the clash of steel.

Considering that his opponent was the same type of creature and from the same army as the fox he’d battled a couple nights ago Martin had expected that this would go the exact same way, and as such was surprised to find that this fox was a great deal better with a spear than his fallen comrade. Martin was continually forced on the defense and was unable to try the same sword-drop trick that had worked last time, a fact which became readily apparent after the first lightning-fast set of jabs sent a blinding wave of pain down his right arm when he failed to completely deflect the final strike. _Any split-second of hesitation on my part and it’s over_.

His first instinct was to try and get Gonff involved in their duel, hoping that facing two opponents would throw the fox off balance, but a millisecond’s glance to his side – one that gave the fox the opportunity to nearly punch straight through his throat – revealed that Gonff was currently engaged in a wrestling match with a stoat that must have tried and sneak up behind them. Another glance told him that Ranguvar was similarly occupied with the three rats; Martin was all on his own.

Martin parried the fox’s spear with all his strength and forced his opponent to take a step back, giving him half a second of breathing room. It didn’t help, as a brief exchange brought them back into a stalemate. _Great, that didn’t work. What now?_ There was no question that in a straight fight the fox would overpower and out maneuver him unless Martin managed to tire him out enough to negate that advantage. _But how to go about that_?

Martin managed to barely deflect another killing blow. It gave him an idea. _Well, as they say, fortune favors the bold_. Adjusting his stance, Martin left a miniscule, yet highly visible opening in his defense. As the fox moved in for the kill he took a deep breath and tried to lose himself back in the flow.

The fox thrust the spear forwards with all his might. Martin dodged around it and returned with a counter-thrust, one that left his stomach open. The fox aimed towards that with his paw and was intercepted by Martin’s leg and left stumbling forwards. Martin lowered his sword back into ready position, this time living a gap open above his right eye.

The spear came out again, this time grazing through the fur and leaving a tiny cut, but in return the spear’s owner received a punch to the gut. Once again Martin adjusted his sword, and now the opening was right around the center of his stomach. _That’s right. Keep coming, mate_.

Three near-misses later, and the fox was getting tired. Martin shifted into offense. A series of cuts and slashes made quick work of the spear and left the fox bleeding from several fresh wounds, and Martin pressed the offense until the fox was carrying only splinters. A desperate kick sent the mouse flying back, after which the fox stared at his ruined spear in horror before turning tail and running.

His opponent fled Martin turned to Gonff and saw that the other mouse was busy using his sling as an impromptu noose. The stoat struggled mightily in the attempt to escape, but Gonff held tight, and eventually his movements devolved from furious shakes to more subdued twitches and bottomed out as the occasional spasm before simply stopping. It was, Martin thought, slightly unnerving. Effective, but unnerving.

Martin was about to turn and help Ranguvar out when the squirrel let out a wild, bestial roar unlike anything Martin had heard from any creature before. He whirled around to see what was happening and received a shock.

The squirrel’s fur was no longer black in the slightest, instead stained dark red from at least a dozen wounds. Only one of the rats was down and the other two edged closer, sensing victory, but the squirrel seemed to notice neither her wounds nor the danger, instead growling back at her enemies.

None of that was what shocked Martin. Instead, it was the eyes.

They were red as the blood sopping down into her fur, a shade of red he had only seen in the eyes of one other creature: himself, in his dreams when he was hacking his way through every creature in his path regardless of who they were.

Instinctively, Martin raised his sword in defense and stepped back until he stood over Gonff.

Ranguvar met the two rats with none of the finesse or sword skill she’d displayed in the past. She wielded her sword less like a weapon and more like a meat cleaver, hacking away in berserk fury until one rat’s sword snapped in half. She then moved on to the rat and started hacking away at _him_ while the other rat froze in place and watched in horror.

A final cut left Ranguvar’s sword caught in the rat’s shoulder. Without attempting to withdraw it she turned to the other rat, who by now looked positively terrified, and launched herself at him with a mad cry. Ranguvar kept shouting after she landed on the rat’s chest and began ripping at his fur with her paws, all the while sounding more and more demonic, until she had completely ripped open his chest. Paws covered in blood Ranguvar turned to Swartt, whose face was a mix of terror and fascination.

She started towards him, not even bothering to grab a weapon. “You…you…YOU…” Every step she repeated the word, every repeat madder and madder.

Wisely, Swartt decided to flee. Ranguvar started to run after him, but before she could get far Martin placed a paw on her shoulder.

“It’s over, Rangu –”

The squirrel immediately roared and turned on Martin, throwing the mouse to the ground before launching herself at him. Martin found himself staring up at a squirrel doing her best to rip him apart and had to force his panic down his throat. She _reeked_ of blood and sweat, some of it her own and some of it the creatures she had torn apart, and Martin was struck with the terror that soon his own blood would be joining the mix.

“YOU…YOU…” She kept yelling out the word as though he were Swartt; in that moment Martin understood that Ranguvar no longer was able to make a distinction between friend and foe. It was all the same blood red world to her.

“OI! DON’T KILL MY MATE!” The pressure on Martin’s chest suddenly vanished as a brown streak flew overhead and knocked Ranguvar off him. He pushed himself upright and saw that Gonff had tackled the squirrel clean off him, and now the two were a giant ball rolling around on the ground and doing their level best to punch the life out of the other.

Completely exhausted, Martin was unable to do anything more than watch when Ranguvar threw Gonff off her. She stood up and glared at the two mice, livid and completely gone.

She took four steps towards them. As she did so Martin heard a slight _whistle_ and saw a glint in the air, and half a second later Ranguvar gasped and staggered to her knees as an arrow burst out of her neck.

It was Amber, bow in hand and looking paler than Martin had ever seen her before. “What…”

“I don’t know.” Martin replied. “She was fighting those three rats when all of a sudden she lost it. Her eyes went bright red and she began fighting like a mad beast.”

Amber’s eyes widened. “Bright red? Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

She looked Ranguvar’s body over, studying the wounds. “ _Bloodwrath_.” She whispered.

The two mice looked at each other. “Blood-what, now?” Gonff asked.

“I’ll explain later. Martin, Gonff, come with me – it’s lord Verdauga.”

Martin suddenly felt as cold as ice. “Is my father…” The sentence caught in his throat.

“No. Not him, at least. He’s terrified that you might be, though.”

The three of them ran through the destroyed camp. Apparently the battle had concluded while they were busy with Ranguvar, as the only vermin left were dead ones strewn around smashed tents and broken campfires.

They found Verdauga outside his own tent, cradling someone in his paws. For a horrible, terrifying second Martin thought it was Gingivere, until he took a closer look and saw the wooden leg.

Verdauga raised his head and saw them approaching. Martin was relieved to see he was mostly unharmed, although his face was set hard with grief.

“He gave his life defending me.” It was only six words, but Martin could tell that for his father it might as well have been six thousand for all the effort it took to speak them.

Wordlessly, Martin sat down next to his father. The wildcat withdrew one paw from Ashleg’s body and grabbed his son’s, and together they sat in silence.

 


	38. Interim

By the time all was said and done, a further sixteen bodies joined Ashleg on the outskirts of the camp, twelve Thousand-Eyes and four Long Patrol hares. Verdauga, Boar, and their captains spent the majority of the morning hollowing out graves for the fallen, and right about lunch time all those not too wounded to come were called over to say goodbye. When the call came Martin, chest still burning from Ranguvar’s attempt to carve it open, forced himself to his feet and lurched out to attend.

Someone – Boar or Bella, most like – had dragged a massive stone over to stand above the mound of freshly-moved dirt, probably to make some kind of monument or another. _A monument that, once we leave, may never be seen again by creatures who knew who is buried or why they were so far from home._ The thought was more than a little sad, he realized.

The last of the soldiers shuffled into position and Verdauga began to speak. Martin tuned out his speech within the first few moments, too exhausted by everything that had happened in the morning to listen, until some ways into the speech the subject turned to how Ashleg had thrown himself across Verdauga’s body to save the wildcat from a spear thrust and he was jolted back into paying attention.

It was the pause that did it, that weighty pause that seemed to go on forever, before his father mentioned that it was the second time his life was saved by another creature sacrificing theirs like that. As his father moved on to giving one final benediction, a lump settled into Martin’s throat and refused to budge.

Boar stepped up to offer his goodbyes to the four hares, absolutely none of which was heard by the mouse trying to blink back tears.

After Boar was done they all spent the next five minutes completely silent. Save for the wind rustling the leaves, there was nothing to be heard.

“You know,” Gingivere began after the five minutes had passed, “it seems wrong to leave them here, away from Mossflower.”

“It’s what we must do.” Verdauga’s voice was heavy. “Mossflower is too far away, and we lack the means to preserve their bodies. By the time we could bury them at home, the risk of disease would be too great.” He shook his head. “This grave will have to suffice.”

“What about tonight?” Martin asked. “Is the attack off?”

“I need to consult with Boar on that. If it were up to me, we would proceed as planned so that we could pay the scum back tenfold, but if the Long Patrol wishes to wait then the attack will have to wait.”

Gingivere and Martin lingered after their father had left. “I can’t believe Ashleg’s gone.” Gingivere gently touched the rock. “I always pictured him just retiring back home after he got too old or something. He just always seemed too…strong to die like this.”

“I know. How could a creature who’d managed to fight his way out of a thirty-creature ambush go down like this? “At least he went giving his life for father. Just like…” He trailed off. A moment later he felt his brother’s paw on his shoulder.

“Is it hard? Knowing that?”

“A little.”

The two stood silently for a few more moments before Gingivere left, giving the monument one last look. Martin remained behind, and once his brother left he kneeled down on the dirt.

“Thank you, Ashleg. For everything.” He grabbed a pebble from the soil and patted it down into the soil; it seemed like the right thing to do.

***

In the end, Boar agreed with Verdauga that the attack ought to proceed as planned. The hares, he explained, were raring to avenge their fallen comrades, and so was he. After that they gathered up all their slain enemies, just as they had their fallen comrade, but instead of a solemn burial and a stone marker they received a rough ditch and a bonfire. Ranguvar’s body was among the dead, Martin noticed. When he asked his father about it Verdauga glanced at the body, spat, and said “she tried to kill you. Is that not enough?”

_That doesn’t mean burning her with Swartt’s creatures is right_ , Martin thought as he watched the bodies burn. The smell, he realized, was overpowering; he turned away, both from it and from his inability to stomach seeing Ranguvar’s body for another moment.

After the bonfire had diminished down to embers, Martin left and found Bella sitting with Sunflash some ways back into the camp.

“Are you two alright?”

“Only thanks to Whitear and his wife. They just kept coming, and we tried to fight them off on our own, but…”

“But I was _useless!_ ” Sunflash slammed his good paw against the ground. “I froze up the moment I saw a ferret, and even after I was able to get myself together, I couldn’t even _do_ anything. With my paw like this, I can’t even hold a mace or a sword properly anymore.”

“Son, you just spent the last six years as a prisoner. You’re still recovering.”

“If it helps,” Martin interjected, “I froze up during the ambush a couple nights ago, and the only reason I’m still here is because my father happened to notice in time. And I haven’t even been through a tenth of the things you have.”

Sunflash merely shook his head. “But I’m a _badger._ We’re supposed to be brave, but I don’t think I can even face battle again tonight like grandfather is going to.”

_What would Gingivere say?_ He was always the one better at comforting people. “There’s a difference between bravery and feeling no fear, matey. You were willing to cut off your own thumb to escape slavery – how is that not incredibly brave?”

“He’s right, Sunflash. You’re braver than either of us combined. And I’m not going to fight tonight either, as a matter of fact. Gingivere’s also staying, so how about this: you wait along with us, and be our protector? We’ll be counting on you.”

It was a fairly transparent attempt at building Sunflash back up, but all the same it was clear from the firm nod that the effort was appreciated.

“Please look after my brother – as should be readily apparent by now that cat has all the self-defense skills of an infant.” Martin was suddenly struck by a bit of inspiration. “Oh yeah, about your weapon problems? Might I suggest trying out a flail? They can be wielded one-paw and fill a pretty similar niche to maces. Ashleg has – _had_ – a few in the arms tent.” Saying the pine marten’s name hurt a bit. I’ll have Raker send somebeast over with one for you to try out.”

“Thank you.” Sunflash looked up at his mother. “I won’t let you and grandfather down, I vow. I _will_ be braver. I _will_ be the warrior grandfather is.”

“Sunflash, don’t push yourself before you’re ready. And know that no matter what I’m proud of you and will be proud of whatever you become.”

Sunflash turned to Martin. “You understand, don’t you?”

“Frankly, lately I’ve been wondering if all that business about ‘living up to a family legacy’ is overrated.” He shrugged. “But maybe having two fathers makes things different for me. Now if I may be excused, I’d like to go take a bath. I still can’t get the smell of burning fur and flesh out of my nose.”

 

Exhausted, Swartt and his band staggered back into camp less than half a day after they’d originally left it. Bluefen heard them coming and ran out to greet them, hoping against hope that Swartt might have died in the attack, and was disheartened to see that he was almost completely unharmed.

When he passed by her Swartt immediately tore off his cape and tossed it at her. “Clean this!” He barked. “Something tells me I’m going to need it tonight.”

Knowing better than to even speak, Bluefen took the cape and hastily drew up a washbin. Setting it down outside Bowfleg’s pavilion ( _no_ , she admonished herself, _Swartt’s tent now. I have to remember that or he’ll get angry_ ) she began washing Swartt’s cape as its owner sat inside arguing with his captains.

“Well _that_ was a disaster.” Muggra grumbled. “Twenty of us dead for what? So you could get your toy back? And we didn’t even accomplish that much.”

Bluefen heard a quick _flip_ and then the whistle of steel through the air. A second later Muggra screamed in pain.

“Any more smart remarks from the rest of you lot?” Swartt growled. The only reply was a low-continuous moan from the ground where Muggra was now laying. “Good. Now, I accept that the way things went wasn’t ideal for us, but it could have been worse. Aggal, you said you got one of their leaders, right?”

“Aye. It wasn’t the wildcat lord like it should’ve been, but I _did_ manage to kill that wood-legged pine marten.”

“A cripple?” Someone snorted. Bluefen thought it might have been Wildag. “What use is killing somebeast like that to us?”

“It’s worth plenty, seeing as he was the wildcat lord’s military commander.”

Bluefen froze. _No. Please let that not be enough_.

Everyone in the tent whooped. “Not that this makes the battle ours, I’ll remind everyone.” It was impossible to mis the sheer glee in Swartt’s voice. “After all, there’s still the wildcat and the badger.”

“The wildcat can’t plan his way out of a paper bag!” Scraw snorted. “Remember what the lard said about Verdauga’s run-in with ol’ Greypaw?”

“Aye, but there’s still that squirrel to worry about. She’s a crafty one.” Aggal’s voice had turned deadly serious. “And Boar’s still about, like you said. He could be a problem.”

“I’ll think of a way to deal with him, I promise you.” Bluefen heard the scraping of a chair. “Dismissed.”

A few more chairs scraped away from the table and their occupants filed out of the pavilion. Muggra was limping, Bluefen noticed, and his footpaw looked like it had almost been slashed clean in half. She gave him a little smile of sympathy, which the weasel ignored for limping off.

“What do you have to be so happy about?” Bluefen’s smile immediately died when Swartt appeared. “Are you finished with my cape yet?”

“N-not yet. It still needs to – to dry, my love.”

Swartt glared at her and for a second Bluefen was sure he was going to hit her, but instead he simply sighed. “Well, hurry it up then, woman. I don’t have all day.”

“I’ll get it two you before dinner time, I promise.”

“You’d bloody well better.” Swartt stalked off.

Bluefen finished washing and hung the cape up to dry, it slowly dawning on her that she was completely alone. _I could run_ , the realized, _and no one could catch me. I could make my way over to the Mossflower army. They’d protect me, wouldn’t they? Unless, of course, I’m too tainted after father and now Swartt._

But then, she couldn’t escape, could she? There were scouts and guards all around the entire camp, and if she tried to run they’d catch her and turn her over to Swartt. That would just make him angry, and if he was angry he’d take it out on her again.

Bluefen shuddered. No, she couldn’t run. At least, not until there was something more important for the horde to be occupied by…

_I’ll do it then._ The resolution to escape filled her like a fire. _When the Mossflower army attacks I’ll do it. If Scumpstripe – Sunflash – can get out of here so can I_.

***

Swartt paced around the outskirts of the camp. While he had promised he would come up with a way to solve their badger problem and fully intended to fulfill that promise, the _how_ of that was proving problematic. _How in the gates of hell are we supposed to get rid of a giant badger?_ Greypaw had come close back in the day, he knew, but that had only been because of luck and the fact that he had wielded a giant mace. Swartt, with his sword and shield, would need a miracle to repeat that. _And besides, Greypaw died in the end after Boar went into that Bloodwrath state._ _If he goes into that again facing me, I’ll be dead for sure_.

Swartt stopped pacing and blinked. _Wait a minute. That squirrel from this morning. She went berserk and started attacking those mice_. Had that been Bloodwrath too? If it had been, that meant…

Unless Bloodwrath behaved differently between badgers and squirrels…

_Well, it’s worth a shot_.

That problem solved, his mind wandered as it often did to Bluefen. It was nice to know that she was completely cowed to him, but he hoped that it wouldn’t interfere with her ability to do her chores like he wanted to. He needed his cape for tonight, after all. Especially if the worst-case scenario turned out and he died tonight. It was, after all, a distinct possibility.

_Hmm… Perhaps I’ll pay her a visit tonight before things really get started. Might take my mind off things, at least for the moment._

***

Night fell. Martin put on his armor and joined his father at the front. His captains and Boar’s gathered, Verdauga bade them forwards into the night. They all marched in silence, nervous and angry after the morning’s ambush, until finally they all gathered just outside of the clearing Skarlath had said was the site of the vermin camp. Amber’s scouts suck out and returned within five minutes, confirming everything the kestrel had told them.

Verdauga and Boar looked at each other and nodded. “For the fallen.” They said in unison as they urged everyone forwards.

Martin withdrew his sword. “For Ashleg.” He stated as he charged alongside his father.

They burst into the clearing, the fires of rage and a desire to put an end to things once and for all bursting through their hearts.

“MOOOOOOOOOSSFLOWEEEEEEEERRRRRRR!!!”

“EEEEUUUUUUULAAAAAAALIAAAAAAAAA!!!”


End file.
